


To Make It Right

by kitsunequeen



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Slave Derek, Slavery, Slow Burn, Trust Issues, Werewolf!Danny, Writer Stiles, neither of which are from stiles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2018-02-25 10:05:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 42
Words: 123,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2617940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitsunequeen/pseuds/kitsunequeen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a society where the werewolves have been enslaved by the humans, Derek has had enough owners to know who the real monsters are. He's also had enough to know not to trust a word out of Stiles' mouth, no matter how nice an act he puts on. </p><p>The only thing that's kept Derek going for all these years is guilt. Now, though, he has a mission that might just allow him to set some of this right...</p><p>If only he can get away from Stiles. </p><p>-----</p><p>In which Derek's been abused all his life, Stiles just wants to show him he's not like his past owners, and they've both got a plan. The only question is, whose is more flawed?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been reading a lot of slavery AUs lately and figured I'd try my hand at one. Thanks to all the awesome authors who inspired this!

"Lydia, let's just go home."

 

"No," she says, and Stiles knows her light tone of voice doesn't actually mean that this is negotiable.

 

"You know what I think of these things," Stiles argues, not one to be outdone on the stubbornness scale.

 

"Well seeing as you're not the one buying, it really shouldn't matter," she says primly, inspecting her perfect manicure.

 

The argument, if it can be called that, has been going on for the past ten minutes. Lydia wants to check out the slave auction, and Stiles doesn't. Seeing as the Jeep has just reached the front entrance, apparently Stiles lost this one.

 

"Jackson wants me to pick up a new werewolf to keep Danny company," Lydia tells him yet again, as though that makes it better. "Do you want Danny to be lonely?"

  

"I-"

 

Well that's a rock and a hard place. Danny has belonged to the Whittemore family since he and Jackson were children, but despite one being a wolf and the other a human, the two had become fast friends. Even in their twenties they still are, with Jackson being Danny's sole owner since he moved out of his parents' house. Although why anyone would want to be friends with Jackson is _beyond_ Stiles. Still, Danny is a good guy, and it probably sucks that he doesn't have any other werewolves to talk to. And frankly, Stiles pities anyone who has to spend all day with Jackson for their company.

 

Still, slavery is wrong, no matter how nice the owner is. The fact that most people own slaves these days—though it's rarer in Beacon Hills—doesn't make it any better, nor the fact that richer families like the Whittemores often have dozens. But then Danny's face enters his mind, with his wide brown eyes that can only be rivaled by Scott's, and with it the fact that the poor guy has no one like himself to talk to. Stiles sighs, telling himself that Lydia's one of the nicest owners a werewolf could have, and that Jackson isn't _so_ bad.

 

He cuts the engine and Lydia flashes him a smile.

 

"You're the best."

 

"You better believe it," he grumbles, as a valet steps up to take his car around back.

 

* * *

 

"Let's say, folks, we start the bidding at two hundred dollars, shall we?"

 

"Two hundred!"

 

"Two twenty-five."

 

"Two fifty!"

 

Up and up and up.

 

"You should be flattered, dog," one of the handlers mutters. "Last one only fetched a hundred bucks."

 

Flattered is about the last word Derek would use.

 

"Four hundred!"

 

"Four twenty-five!"

 

Though technically meant to keep his head bowed, Derek chances a quick glance into the crowd. It's not like they'll beat him here in front of everyone.

 

His eyes dart between those making bids, trying to decide if any look like they would be particularly bad. One woman, the one currently countering any offers placed, has a gleam in her eye that makes Derek wary.

 

"C'mon, ladies and gentlemen, he's good for more than just manual labor, if you know what I mean," the auctioneer calls.

 

Most of the gathered crowd laughs, and the bids start getting higher, the intervals broadening.

 

"Five fifty!"

 

"Six hundred!"

 

"Six seventy-five!"

 

"Seven fifty!"

 

Derek feels his stomach churn. The same woman is still matching everyone's bids, but it doesn't even matter anymore. Anyone placing bids this high must have the same intentions. He knows it won't be going much higher with the market the way it is, and chances another look to see what kind of people are still bidding on him.

 

There's three men and two women, and as the price gets higher the intervals come closer together again. They're all rich, but none of them are stupid.

 

There are plenty of good looking slaves.

 

When the highest bid becomes nine hundred—Creepy Lady still winning—no one seems willing to top it.

 

"Going once! Going twice!"

 

"Fifteen hundred."

 

The voice is a new one, this being the first bid it placed, and comes from the back of the crowd. It's steady and almost disinterested, as though shelling out that kind of money for a slave is commonplace. Maybe for this guy it is.

 

"Fifteen hundred," the auctioneer says, and gives a low whistle. "Going once! Twice!  _Sold!_ to the man with the blue tie. Isn't that something, ladies and gents?" Then, to the man, "Your purchase will be waiting for you in the back lot, sir."

 

Derek risks one last look up, but as soon as he raises his head there's a hand clamped to the back of his neck, forcing it down.

 

"Show some respect, you animal," the second handler hisses. "Let's go."

 

With that, the two men drag Derek to his feet and offstage, not leaving him a chance to see his new owner.

 

Oh well, he'll be seeing him soon enough.

 

Unfortunately.

 

* * *

  

"Quite the hypocrite," Lydia hums, voice laced with amusement. "What on earth compelled you to do that? And for that price, Stiles, God. You probably could've gotten him for a thousand."

 

Jackson pulls up in the Porsche, followed by a van that reads Calavera's Auctions: Trading, Training, and Toting, and presumably carries Lydia's purchase, a blond werewolf named Ethan.

 

"Man, Stilinski," he laughs. "After all the crap you gave me for having Danny, you go out and get yourself a werewolf?"

 

"Shut up," Stiles says through gritted teeth.

 

As much as he loves Lydia, and, well, _tolerates_ Jackson, he's seriously not in the mood to talk about this. He has no _idea_ what convinced him to do that. It was one of the many cases where his brain to mouth filter had decided it needed a day off, leaving him to do insane things like _buy_ another person. And for an inordinate sum, at that. Where he was going to get fifteen hundred dollars was unbeknownst to him; they'd just have to put it on his credit card for now. And what he's going to do with the werewolf, currently known to him only as slave 01927, is an even bigger mystery. He doesn't really have time to think about it before two men come out the back door with the wolf between them.

 

"Later, Stilinski," Jackson says, revving his engine.

 

"Bye!" Lydia calls as they speed off, van in tow.

 

* * *

 

"On your knees," Handler One orders.

 

"He'll be hearing that a lot, for fifteen hundred," the second one says, and they laugh obnoxiously.

 

Derek feels queasy, especially since it's probably true.

 

"You hear me?" the first one demands, suddenly cutting off from his laughter. "Your knees!"

 

Before Derek even has a chance to get down on his own, the man is digging his thumb into the controls of the shock collar, sending him crashing to the floor.

 

"Get. Up."

 

He punctuates each word with another shock.

 

Derek struggles to get into a kneeling position, breath coming in short gasps as he fights to get himself back under control.

 

"Hands behind your back."

 

* * *

 

Stiles stares as the werewolf is brought out the back door. The chains seem a bit excessive, to say the least.

 

"What's with all the...?" Stiles asks, lamely gesturing to the way the werewolf is now restricted.

 

"Collar," the man says, ticking things off on his fingers. "That's standard. Arms chained behind the back. Standard. This one's a bit more belligerent than some others, though. Not to worry, of course, sir. The other reinforcements will keep you more than safe. Unfortunately the beasts don't come with cages, but those are easy enough to get your hands on. If you feel these," he waves a hand at the werewolf, "aren't enough, you can always go to the supply store for more."

 

Not enough? The guys seems done up in enough chains to keep an army of werewolves at bay. Stiles stares at the slave, who's kept his head bowed through the conversation, and is kneeling with his back perfectly straight. He doesn't look terribly harmful to him. And how can he be? Aside from everything that's apparently "standard", he has his legs shackled together, some sort of weird device on his ankle that Stiles doesn't quite know the purpose of, and a gag in his mouth that seems to be wound overly-tightly around his head. It makes Stiles a little sick to his stomach. It must make the slave sicker.

 

* * *

 

Derek waits till his new master is occupied with one of the handlers before he looks up at him. He keeps his head bowed, peering from under his lashes. The man is tall, though not as tall as Derek, with brown hair and a smattering of moles. His whiskey-colored eyes seem to narrow as the handler rattles on about cages and shackles; he must be too polite to cut the guy off, but clearly he already knows about all this stuff. A first time buyer certainly wouldn’t pay such an obscene amount of money before knowing how they liked having a slave. Although, of course, everyone likes it. Someone to take out all your anger on, who does the dishes in return? Must be a pretty good deal.

 

While he’s busy letting his mind wander, those scrutinizing brown eyes lock on his before he gets a chance to lower them again. He debates if he’s better off looking away, getting down on his knees again to apologize, or just waiting for the shock of pain sure to come from the controller the handler had given him moments earlier. Instead, the man does nothing, leaving them at a sort of stalemate, with it being too late for Derek to look away without further punishment, and the man surely not willing to back down to a slave. Derek’s about to take the get-on-your-knees-before-he-shocks-you-to-them approach when the man simply returns his attention to the handler. As imprudent as it is, and as much as he knows this means there’ll be a far worse punishment when they get home, Derek can’t help but feel like it was a small victory.

 

* * *

 

“He’s pretty well behaved today,” the handler says as he ‘helps’ Derek into the front seat of the man’s Jeep.

 

Funny. Derek had been expecting a classier ride.

 

“But again, Mr. Stilinski-” _ah, so he does have a name_ , “we advise you to use the collar and provided restrictions as liberally as you see fit. This dog’ll need it.”

 

As twisted as it is, Derek takes a strange pride in those words. In a life where a good day means one with minimal physical and psychological abuse, it’s good to know that he’s still rebellious enough to give them trouble. He bows to his masters, sure, and does what he’s told, but frequently only after being threatened or forced, and the fact that his papers say _behavioral issues_ brings him more satisfaction than it probably should. But no way will he gracefully bow to the system, allowing his owners to walk all over him without a little payback, as minimal as it may be.

 

One thing about this new master that kills him, though, is that Derek can no longer have his little victories.

 

After what Isaac told him last week, he has to play the part of the perfect slave, has to make this latest torturer—because that’s really the only accurate description of these people—wonder what all those before him had found so problematic.

 

Because now? Now he has a mission. If Isaac is right, then Derek just might be able to fix something in his fucked up life. Fifteen years he’s had to live with the guilt, the fear, the mind-consuming fact that it was all his fault and that he’d never be able to fix it.

 

Finally, though, he might have the chance. And if that means kneeling and obeying and doing whatever the hell sort of sick things guy probably wants, then... so be it.  

 

He’s going to make this right.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever felt as relieved as he does when the worker finally heads back into the building, allowing him to close his car door and be alone. Well, alone with the werewolf.

 

When the man had offered advice on how to properly care for a slave, Stiles figured he might as well take it. All traders have a no return policy for the first month, so he knew he’d just have to deal with the slave for a while, and thought some advice on how to deal with the full moon or whatever could be helpful. What he wasn’t expecting was a lecture on what kinds of wolfsbane work the fastest, the types of gags werewolves are unable to bite through, and an explanation that the hunk of metal attached to the slave's ankle is a programmable tracking device that functions as a sort of mini bear trap if he strays too far from where Stiles wants him. Stiles highly doubts that’s necessary, and knows for a fact that Danny doesn’t wear one, but still, it makes him wonder. Had he bought some sort of psychopath who was going to try to kill him the first chance he got, or is it the sellers who’re the insane ones?

 

All that flies through his mind in a matter of seconds, and he figures he should probably introduce himself to his new passenger when his phone buzzes.

 

“Err, sorry,” he says, glancing at the wolf. “Gimme one sec.”

 

The other man doesn’t respond, just continues staring at the dashboard, head bowed.

 

**Lydia Martin: [6:23 PM]**

_How’s it going? Manage not to make the guy hate you in 20 minutes or less?_

**Stiles Stilinski: [6:23 PM]**

_Thanks for the vote of confidence. Idk I haven’t even gotten to talk to him yet, I somehow got myself a speech on the proper treatment of werewolves (aka none at all). U guys do any of this stuff to Danny and I’ll skin Jackson myself_

**Lydia Martin: [6:23 PM]**

_Calm down, Danny probably lives better than I do. Listen, glad I caught you before you screwed this up. DO NOT tell him you bought him by accident_

 

**Lydia Martin [6:23 PM]**

_Or whatever the hell that was_

**Stiles Stilinski: [6:24 PM]**

_What why?? U think I want him to hate me more?_

 

**Lydia Martin: [6:24 PM]**

_You're gonna hurt his feelings_

**Stiles Stilinski: [6:24 PM]**

_Lyds what the hell?? If u saw this guy I’m pretty sure he’s had more than just his feelings hurt. If I tell him I didn’t mean to he’ll prob hate me at least a little less_

**Lydia Martin: [6:24 PM]**

_What’s the plan? ‘Hey man sorry I bought u didn’t mean to buy another person total accident haha oops’? He’s either gonna think you're lying and be like 10x less trustful of you while he tries to figure out why, or you're gonna hurt his feelings making him think he’s not wanted. You want him to spend the whole month with you just waiting to be shipped back? Plus that kinda guarantees disobedience, if he knows he’s going back anyway. We never had that problem with Danny but you never know how they’ll behave_

**Stiles Stilinski: [6:25 PM]**

_Yeah cuz that’s totally what I sound like.  And I mean like no offense but he isn’t wanted. He should be glad I don’t want him, no?_

**Lydia Martin: [6:25 PM]**

_No. Ugh will you just listen for once? I can’t really talk now, we gotta get Ethan set up at the house. I’ll call you like tomorrow and explain, k? Just don’t mention not wanting him._

Stiles stares down at his phone in frustration, torn between arguing further and turning his attention back to the other man. The blank look on his face combined with the fact that Lydia really does tend to know what she’s talking about gets him to give in. For now, at least.

 

**Stiles Stilinski: [6:25 PM]**

_Fine_

 

**Lydia Martin: [6:25 PM]**

_Good. Now go get him to warm up to you a little. Ttyl_

**Stiles Stilinski: [6:25 PM]**

_Bye_

* * *

 

Derek keeps his head carefully bowed as the man texts someone, fingers flying as though he wants to get it over with quickly. 

 

“So,” he finally says, shoving his phone in his pocket and turning to look at Derek. “I’m Sti- oh.”

 

 _Right,_ Derek thinks _. Good thing you caught yourself there. Sounded like you were about to introduce yourself like I’m a real person. That would’ve been just catastrophic._

 

But rather than correcting himself to whatever title he wants to be called, Stiles says, “Uh, c’mere. Let’s get that off you.”

 

Here? Now? Derek hates to be the one to break it to the guy, but he’s gonna have a bit of a hard time getting Derek’s clothes off around his chains. He wonders, briefly, if he just plans on ripping them off; with the cheap material it wouldn’t be too hard. He hopes not, though, as this is his only set of clothes. He refuses to think of the more obvious reason. If he doesn’t think about it, it’s fine. It’s always fine, isn’t it?

 

 _I’m fine I’m fine I’m fine I’m_ -

 

“Uh,” the man says again. “You alright?”

 

Derek realizes he must’ve stiffened, and forces himself to relax. No point in making this worse.

 

“Can I take that as a yes?”

 

Rhetorical. Don’t answer rhetorical questions.

 

“Here, look, I’ll just take it off and maybe you’ll feel better.”

 

 _Ha_.

 

Stilinski reaches out both hands, seeming hesitant as he nears Derek. They pause in the air for a moment before finally just going for it- He hadn’t been expecting the man to land on the knot at the back of his head. Long, nimble fingers disentangle the tie of the gag till it falls loose in his hands. He looks at it with distaste, and Derek wonders if perhaps he has a better one waiting at home. Whatever. For now, Derek’s just glad to have it off. Either side of his mouth is scarred in a way even the Joker himself would marvel at, although of course it’s not _really_ scarred. He’ll be healed soon enough. Stilinski’s mouth hangs slightly ajar in what looks like horror, but clearly that’s not it. Maybe he's turned on? Could he have a kink for this sort of thing?

 

“Are you okay?” he asks.

 

Derek doesn’t know if he’d be better off answering that one or not. Not like the man actually cares. Besides, his mouth hurts. If he doesn’t need to speak, he’d prefer not to.

 

“Do you- can you talk?”

 

“Yes, Master.”

 

“Oh, don’t… I’m just Stiles. What’s your name? Stupid papers didn’t seem to give one.”

 

His voice is lighthearted, or more specifically, like it’s trying very hard to sound that way. Derek wonders what his ulterior motive is. Stiles probably wants to lure him into a false sense of security, make things seem okay only to make it so much worse later. He’d had owners like that; pretending to be lax and then punishing him for the slightest infraction. He hadn’t fallen for something like that since he was a teenager, and he certainly isn’t stupid enough to believe it from this guy.

 

“You may call me whatever you wish, Master,” Derek says, keeping his eyes fixed perfectly in place. Even before he had his new goal to worry about, Derek had always made sure to behave properly for the first week or so. A bad impression right off the bat is never good. First he needs to observe the other slaves, see how much he can get away with. Despite what some of his previous owners might’ve thought, he knows exactly what behavior is expected of him, and how to do it; his time with the Argents had ensured that. The only difference with Stiles is he needs to keep his good conduct up the entire time they’re together, and maybe, if he does this right, Stiles will be the last owner he ever has to worry about.

 

“Uh,” Stiles says, apparently floundering. “I mean, what do people usually call you?”

 

Direct questions like this are always a problem. If answered truthfully they often result in punishment for insolence, though the owner had been the one to ask, and if answered with a lie too obvious, they only result in further punishment. It’s a bit of a Catch 22.

 

“Pet. Dog. Animal,” Derek says, voice devoid of any emotion. It’s simply fact, nothing more.

 

“Um… that’s- anything else?”

 

Apparently the guy wants a more creative selection. Derek delves a little farther back to older owners. “Baby. Killer. Handsome. Shithead. Puppy. Beast.”

 

Stiles is frowning now, and Derek thinks he’s probably about to receive a shock even though he was being completely serious, but Stiles just says, “That’s… screwed up. Do you have a real name? Like from your parents?”

 

He seems to realize he’s struck a nerve and says, “Unless you don’t know them? Well I mean, not that you would anymore. Oh man, I didn’t mean it like that, I-”

 

Derek’s not quite sure why this guy is bothering to make excuses or why he’s thinking about Derek’s feelings at all. Probably just so he can use the parents thing against him later. Ironically, he doesn’t even know that for Derek, the subject is touchier than it would be for any other slave. After all, he’s the reason they’re- Well, he’s not going to think about that right now.

 

“Look, sorry, I just- never mind. What’s your name, if you have one?”

 

Funnily enough, he would prefer Stiles to call him of the cruel names those before him had used. The last owner to even bother learning Derek’s full name was Kate, and she had taken a distinct pleasure in using it, completely destroying the only thing he has left from his family. He considers offering a fake name for a moment, but if he ever forgets to respond to it right away, he knows there’ll be hell to pay.

 

“Derek,” he says finally. “My name is Derek, Master.”

 

“Right. Derek. That’s better. Nice to meet you Derek. You know you can like, look at me and whatever. I don’t bite.”

 

That’s far too nonspecific, that Derek can look at him if he wants. Derek can do just about anything if he wants to, but that doesn’t mean it’s okay with his owner. He weighs whether it’s worth it to ask, but figures the guy hasn’t actually banned him from asking questions yet, so it’s okay for now.

 

“Do you want me to look at you?”

 

“I guess you don’t _have_ to. I like to think I’m not  _that_  ugly, but now you’re making me nervous,” Stiles says, with a small laugh that quickly falters when Derek keeps his focus trained on the dashboard, silent. “Uh, yeah,” he continues, clearing his throat. “If you want to look at me, you can. Whatever makes you comfortable, dude.”

 

Again, not specific enough, but Derek knows better than to ask twice.

 

“Yes, Master.”

 

“You don’t have to call me Master, either, Derek.”

 

“Yes, Master.”

 

“Um… right.”

 

With that, Stiles starts the car and pulls out of the parking lot.

 

“So how’re you doing, Derek?”

 

This is going to be a long ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was more of an informational thing, just some info on what's been expected of Derek in the past. Next one (which I plan to have up soon) will be more of Derek and Stiles actually interacting- and considerably more angsty. Anyway, hope you enjoyed!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry these chapters are coming a bit slowly; I've had a ton of work lately. This one's a little longer to make up for it! And they'll definitely be getting way longer in the future!

Stiles is relentless.

 

Not in the way his others masters had been, not with knives and electricity and pain. Not yet, anyway.

 

No, he just asks question after question after _question_ , always cringing at the response or the way he himself had worded it, sticking his foot in his mouth every few words yet imperturbably continuing to talk, seemingly unable to stop himself.

 

Derek hates this- this game or whatever it is. The fake apologies are maddening, for one thing. Of course Stiles isn’t actually sorry, but why does he keep insisting that he is, and why does he just keep talking? Derek doesn’t know how best to respond, never having been apologized to by a master before, and certainly not ten times within half an hour. If he tells Stiles it’s okay, he’ll likely receive retribution for insinuating that the man truly had done something wrong, so he remains silent. Then there are the questions themselves, all things there are no good answers to.

 

When Stiles asks what Derek likes to do for fun, only to receive the response, “Slaves do not have fun, Master. We are here to serve,” he finally, finally falls into silence, a look of aggravation of his face.

 

Derek knows he’s in for it when they get home.

 

* * *

 

“So here we are,” Stiles says, gesturing at the house. “Home sweet home.”

 

Derek doesn’t even look up. Again, Stiles wonders what on Earth is up with this guy. First the casual conversation Stiles had tried to make in the car had only resulted in answers that sounded as though they were robotically programmed into him, and now he completely refuses to look anywhere even close to Stiles’ eye-level.

 

“You can look at it, you know. You’re gonna have a pretty hard time walking without slamming into things if you’re not looking at them,” he says, trying to keep his voice light.

 

“Are you ordering me to look at it, Master?”

 

“I’m not gonna _order_ you to do anything, I’m just saying it makes no sense for you to keep your head bowed all the time, and even if that’s what your last…” he wavers on the word, “ _owner_ wanted that doesn’t mean I do. So I’m not ordering you, but you have my permission to look at whatever you want. Not that you need permission anyway."

 

He keeps up his neutral tone, despite the way his mind is burning to know what had made Derek think he couldn’t do the simplest of things without explicit permission.

 

“Yes, Master. Thank you, Master.”

 

“Sure thing. C’mon, let’s go.”

 

He all but tumbles out of the car, and is more surprised than he should be at this point when Derek doesn’t even snicker.

 

“I’m a little clumsy sometimes,” he offers sheepishly.

 

He walks over to Derek’s side and opens the door, slightly ashamed when even the guy in chains manages to get out of the car more gracefully than he did. Then the shame doubles when he realizes Derek is still _in_ chains, even though it would’ve been difficult to remove them all in the car.

 

He shuffles after Stiles with surprising speed considering his restraints, but is apparently making a concentrated effort to remain behind him. Stiles opens the door and allows Derek to step into the foyer, then locks it behind them both.

 

As soon as he does, Derek immediately falls to his knees.

 

“Wha-”

 

“I apologize, Master.”

 

“I- what? Why’re you on the- what?”

 

“I was disrespectful in the car. I promise you that I answered everything honestly, though I am sure some of it must have come off as impudence. I apologize. I willingly accept whatever punishment you see fit.”

 

“ _What?_ I don’t wanna- Can you get up? Uh, get up, Derek.”

 

He obeys the direct order, apparently the only way to make him listen, as much as Stiles hates commanding him.

 

“I’m not gonna punish you for anything. Look, I asked you a bunch of stupid questions, cause I guess I get kinda rambly when I’m nervous, but that’s not your fault. The fact that you answered them honestly just makes me more horrified at whoever you worked for before. I’m not going to punish you for being honest. Or for anything. I mean, you’re a full grown man, I can’t exactly punish you.”

 

He thinks he sees the ghost of a sneer on Derek’s face, but it’s gone within a second. Well, it’s something.

 

“Alright,” Stiles tells him. “Pull over that chair and sit down, and I’ll be right back.”

* * *

Of course Derek should’ve expected this. He doesn’t know what he’d been thinking. Actually, he hadn’t been thinking anything; the smirk was involuntary. The truth in the statement that as a full grown man people shouldn’t go around punishing him like he was a naughty child, tied with the fact that that’s exactly what people did anyway, topped off with anger at the whole thing had let the bitter expression escape, if only for a moment. A moment that was long enough for Stiles to see, of course. Derek knew he’d been right earlier. Stiles was just trying to get him relaxed, so he could punish him the moment he slipped up. Unfortunately, the slipup had come so soon. So much for a good impression.

 

He pulls a chair to the middle of the foyer and sits down, waiting for his punishment. Maybe the first time won’t be so bad. Then again, maybe it’ll be extra horrific to ward off future mistakes. Whatever. No matter what Stiles does, Derek has had worse. That’s at least one thing he can thank Kate for.

 

“Here we go,” Stiles announces as he reappears.

 

Derek must admit he hadn’t been expecting metal cutters.

 

“Woah, why do you look so-” Stiles waves a hand around, “dejected?”

 

Taunting, too. Great.

 

“Are you okay?” Stiles asks, having the audacity to sound concerned.

 

That’s another rare question with no good answer.

 

“I will be, Master. My healing should fix anything by tonight.”

 

“What?” Stiles asks, staring. “You think I’m gonna...” He pauses, looking at the tool in his hand. “You think I’m gonna _hurt_ you with this?”

 

Derek looks at him hollowly.

 

“Dude, this is a metal cutter!”

 

“I know, Master.”

 

“You kn- Oh, man, that’s so fucked up. Derek, I just wanna take off your chains, I’m not gonna- holy _shit_. I just told you I’m not going to hurt you, why would I-”

 

He brandishes the tool in the air by way of finishing, a look of horror on his face.

 

Derek can smell the anger pouring off him in waves, along with a weird mix of guilt, confusion, and sadness, and he has no idea what any of that’s about.

 

Stiles takes a deep breath, before slowly saying, “Derek, please tell me this isn’t because you made a face before.”

 

Derek just ducks his head.

 

“Oh my God.” He rubs his free hand against the back of his neck. “Alright. Derek, look at me. This is important.”

 

Derek looks up.

 

“I meant it before. I’m not going to hurt you, _ever_. Do you have any idea how incredibly messed up it is that you were expecting me to like, torture you with this thing? You’re allowed to make whatever the hell kind of faces you want. You can roll your eyes and smirk and stick your tongue out like a five-year-old. You can laugh, or frown, or give me the finger when I’m not looking, or when I _am_ looking too, God knows Jackson does. You don’t have to bow your head, or kneel, or wait for a direct order when I’m not clear enough, and if you misinterpret something that’s not an order once in a while, that’s cool too. Point is, I don’t know what kind of owners you had before, clearly some sort of psychos though, because I can guarantee you that is not normal behavior, okay? So,” he huffs a deep breath. “Yeah.”

 

“Thank you, Master.”

 

There’s no emotion in his voice.

 

His face is carefully blank.

 

Stiles’ face is devastated.

 

* * *

 

Normally Stiles might joke with the man, try to relax the situation, but these circumstances are far from normal.

 

Derek's face is completely stoic as Stiles works at the various locks, and it twists the knife in Stiles' gut to see the utter calm he maintains in the face of what he believes to be danger.

 

Derek hates him. It's not normal hatred, not the way Jackson had hated him in highschool, not the way Mr. Harris had hated him. Not aggressively or even with a reason Stiles deserves it. Derek hates him on principle, because he's the human, not the werewolf, because he's the master, not the slave. Stiles thinks he would hate himself too.

 

This man has been abused, that's one thing Stiles is sure of, and he has to wonder if it's common. The only werewolf he really knows is Danny, as most slaves stay in the household around here, but Lydia really hadn't been exaggerating much when she said Danny lives as well as she does. He has his own bedroom and his own clothes, he's never bowed or knelt to Stiles in his life—and he'd probably openly scoff at the idea—and he doesn't speak in the robotic way Derek does either, speech void of anything that could be considered informal, with a 'Master' tacked on at the end of every sentence.

 

Looking at Danny, he seems like an overall happy guy. Stiles can't help but wonder the last time Derek considered himself happy. 

 

* * *

 

Derek remains perfectly still as Stiles fits infinite keys into infinite locks. Even if he weren't a werewolf he'd probably be able to smell the tension in the room. Part of him wants to feel embarrassed for his assumption, but a larger part is insisting that just because Stiles is okay for now doesn’t mean he’ll be okay. Managing to uphold an amiable, sympathetic attitude for two hours doesn’t mean anything. After all, Kate had said she loved him only to turn him in to the traders, and then to buy and torture him herself. So if Derek has some trust issues, he’s pretty sure he has the right.

 

One thing that’s confusing him, and more than that, annoying him, is the latest smell emanating from Stiles.

 

Pity.

 

If he really is just waiting to strike, he’s pretty good at hiding his emotions to even make himself _smell_ genuine. It almost seems worse, though, that this could be actual sympathy. Derek refuses to be pitied by this human. This scrawny, clumsy, stupid, _pathetic_ human, for whom pity should be the last of his emotions. Derek might tell him as much, too, if it weren’t too soon. And, of course, if he didn’t need to be on his best behavior. 

 

* * *

 

“So… there,” Stiles says carefully. “That’s the last of them, except your legs. You wanna take those off yourself? Well, I mean, not your _legs_."

 

He offers a small smile.

 

Derek doesn’t return it.

 

“Right. I uh- here.”

 

Stiles holds out the metal cutter. Derek looks at him uncertainly, but Stiles considers being looked at at all to be a win.

 

“What would you like me to do with it, Master?”

 

Stiles looks at him curiously. “Like I said, you still have the chains on your legs. I thought maybe you’d prefer to take them off yourself?”

 

“Wouldn't you like to get the new ones first?”

 

“New what?”

 

“The new chains, Master.”

 

“Why would I get new chains? Dude, I just spent like a solid half hour taking _off_ the chains. That would be cruel and unusual punishment for both of us, sitting here doing it all over again.” He realizes, belatedly, what incredibly poor word choice that was. For Derek it is, quite literally, cruel. Though apparently not unusual.

 

Derek still looks skeptical.

 

“I mean you’re also probably a lot stronger than me, but I can do it myself, if it’s a problem…” he adds.

 

“No!” Derek looks surprised at himself, but Stiles doesn’t comment. “I can- I’ll take them off myself, Master.”

 

He takes hold of the tool carefully, as though he thinks it’s some sort of test, but Stiles hands it over willingly.

 

“Cool,” Stiles says. Then, trying for casual, “Do you normally wear chains? I mean, like all the time?”

 

Derek looks highly reluctant to answer, and Stiles is about to take it back, when he says, “Sometimes. It depends on the owner’s preference. They make it more difficult to do chores, but I can manage it well.”

 

“Is it a running away thing?” Stiles asks. He’s being nosy and he knows he should stop, knows he should just look it up online or something, but he suddenly finds himself doubting how truthful online accounts would be. Surely no one would willingly fess up to maltreatment, and even the trader had gone on and on about chains in a perfectly ordinary manner. It all seemed like such a stark contrast from what he was used to with Danny that he can’t help but be curious. And, as he had proven earlier tonight, his filter isn’t necessarily the best.

 

Again, Derek seems hesitant to answer, but he does. “I’ve never run away. We can’t,” he says, pointing to the device around his ankle. “They’re for punishment, sometimes. For safety on the full moon. To put us in our place.”

 

There’s no fire in his voice over the last statement as Stiles had expected. Instead it’s… not defeat, per se. More like acceptance? Whatever it is, Stiles hates hearing it there, can’t believe that Derek actually believes it, and therefore there’s no reason for him to say it.

 

He’s about to say so when Derek continues, “And again, sometimes it depends on the owner’s preference.”

 

Those words, surprisingly, are the ones that carry weight. Stiles feels like he’s being tested somehow, but he doesn’t know what Derek is trying to say. There’s another meaning in them that he can’t quite put his finger on, but once more Derek cuts off his thoughts, tacking on a, “Master,” and then loudly cutting through his restraints, placing the tool on the ground.

 

“Is there anything we can do about the collar or the leg thing?”

 

“What would you like to do about them, Master?”

 

“Take them off,” Stiles says, having thought it was obvious.

 

“They don't come off, Master,” Derek says quietly.

 

“What do you mean? Danny doesn’t wear them.” At a puzzled look from Derek, he adds, “Danny is my friend Lydia’s werewolf. I mean, he’s not _hers_. Not like she owns him or anything. Well I mean, I guess she and Jackson do _own_ him, but it’s not like that. I just mean you can’t, like, actually own someone. Well, technically you _can_ , but it’s not like- you know what? Point is I know they come off. You probably just don’t know how, right?”

 

Derek seems unruffled despite how deeply Stiles had shoved his foot in his mouth.

 

“Collars and ankle bracelets come off in general,” Derek says. “But these don't come off.”

 

"Are they  broken?”

 

“No, Master.”

 

“Well then why not?”

 

“Past… behavioral issues have led the facility to make them permanent.”

 

Stiles frowns.

 

“There’s _no_ way to get rid of them?”

 

“Not that I know of, Master.”

 

“Hmm,” Stiles murmurs. “We’ll see about that. I’ll call the facility up tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

Derek really can't figure out what Stiles is playing at. He's on his very best behavior, the exemplary slave, yet that's what seems to be stressing Stiles out. By now, he assumes Stiles must have never owned a slave before by the way he talks, and because he likely would've punished Derek already for his resistance to answering questions. He'd had masters who, as soon as they learned of his behavioral issues, decided immediately they'd be the one to break him.

 

_Yeah, right._

 

And, of course, if Stiles knew what he was doing he never would've offered to remove the collar, let alone the tracking device. Derek wonders if Stiles knows it's actually a shock collar, and how on earth he plans on controlling Derek if he doesn't. Someone will surely inform him soon enough, but if Derek can avoid shocks for a while that'd be amazing. And if he could get the tracking device off? That would speed up his plans exponentially. 

 

If Stiles hasn't owned a slave before, that opens up several interesting possibilities. What Derek had taken for false kindness may actually be naivety. It seems unlikely that someone could be that oblivious to how the world is, but then again, maybe he's just never been exposed to it before. He seems pretty rich if he'd bother spending so much money on Derek, so maybe he had just lived a very sheltered life? Although it's usually the rich ones who _do_ own slaves, it’s seeming more and more likely that Stiles never has.

 

While Derek might normally consider using that in his favor, he knows he can’t, especially since Stiles apparently has werewolf-owning friends. Even if he didn’t know exactly what he could make Derek do—which is anything—his friends would tell him all about it soon enough, and he’d be furious at being taken advantage of. No, maybe if Derek keeps up the good slave act without Stiles even asking him to, he’ll be able to gain his trust a little more quickly.

 

Yes, he decides. That’s what he’ll do.

 

He’ll just have to see what that encompasses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a teensy bit of insight into Derek's history with Kate here, which there'll be much more detail on eventually. Next chapter you can look forward to a little more about Derek's past and Stiles' reason for buying Derek in the first place. And, of course, we'll find out what Derek's actually planning soon enough;) Lemme know what you think so far!


	4. Chapter 4

“So here’s the kitchen,” Stiles says, gesturing around the large open space.

 

Derek notices the only reason it’s so big is because Stiles apparently has no dining room, and so the kitchen houses a small table as well.

 

In fact, after the tour of the house, Stiles seems to be missing a lot of things. He’s certainly not poor, but he doesn’t appear nearly as rich as Derek had first assumed, either. This only adds to Derek’s concerns on why the man had doled out so much money for him. When your TV is a good four years old, and your car looks like it had belonged to at least two other people before you, dishing out $1500 for a slave can clearly only mean one thing. Perhaps Stiles had been saving up for him. He shudders at the thought.

 

“I know it’s not much,” Stiles says, sounding sheepish. “If you’re used to something like the Whittemores or whatever, but it’s home.”

 

Derek wouldn’t quite call this place his home.

 

“It’s actually getting kinda late, so we can stay here if you want and get started on dinner? I was thinking steak? There’s some in the freezer and it’s a special occasion, I guess, so…”

 

“Of course, Master.”

 

Derek knows how to make steak; at least he won’t be screwing up his master’s first dinner.

 

“Great, I’ll- ah crap,” he says, as the phone starts ringing. He picks it off the cradle and says, “Oh man, it’s my dad. He hasn’t been feeling great lately, I‘ve really gotta take this. You can stay here though, I’ll be back soon.”

 

He jogs out of the room and up the stairs, closing the door of his room behind him. If Derek cared enough, he might bother to eavesdrop. For now, his top priority is dinner.

 

He roots around in the freezer, pushing aside tubs of ice cream and a few frozen pizzas, finally locating a couple of steaks and pulling one out. He sets it on the counter and begins rooting around for pans. If there’s one reason he’s especially grateful for not having chains on, it’s cooking. The thought of accidentally setting something on fire always prickled at the back of his mind.

 

He puts the pan on the stove and lets it heat up a little, then puts the steak on, trying to decide how rare Stiles would like it. As it cooks, the juicy aroma fills his nose, his heightened senses only serving to increase the torture. He tries to think of the last time he ate. Yesterday, he remembers. They gave each of them two slices of bread yesterday morning. Not nearly enough for a day, let alone two, and the meaty smell is almost enough to make him start salivating. He wonders when Stiles is going to feed him, and what. Some owners had stuck to bread completely. Kate had opted for dog food, and while it was meat, it was disgusting, and she had found endless amusement in watching him eat it from a bowl on the floor. That is, if she wasn’t feeding him by hand.

 

_“C’mon, Derek, one more bite. It’s so good, isn’t it?” she’d ask sweetly, coaxing him into taking bites of anything from strawberries to raw meat._

 

She’d usually slap him sometime around then, saying he should be more appreciative.

 

Stiles is gone much longer than it seemed he would be, and when Derek listens in upstairs to hear what sounds like the ending of a conversation, he turns the stove off and slips the steak onto a plate, setting it on the table.

 

When Stiles reappears in the kitchen he looks twenty years older, and smells like stress and sadness. He immediately slips into a chair and starts eating, holding his head in one hand. Derek begins cleaning up around the kitchen, putting things back where they belong. After ten minutes or so, Stiles, almost done eating, says, “God, I’m sorry, I’m being crazy rude. Don’t bother cleaning up, you already made all this and it’s awesome. It’s just Dad’s not doing too well, cause his heart kinda sucks and Melissa is worried about him, and man, I don’t know what to do.” He sighs, scraping his fork around his now empty plate. “But yeah, sorry. Not the main focus right now. Sorry I took so long. How’d you like dinner?”

 

Derek stiffens a little, halfway through drying the pan.

 

“Derek?”

 

 _Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit._ What’s that supposed to mean? Is he being sarcastic, or had Derek missed something? How is he messing this up already?

 

“Yes, Master?”

 

“Dinner. How’d you like it?”

 

He can’t lie, he knows that. If Stiles asks him further questions, he won’t know how to respond.

 

“I didn’t eat dinner, Master.”

 

That catches Stiles’ attention, and he sits up a little straighter.

 

“What do you mean you didn’t eat? Didn’t you eat while I was on the phone? I was gone for like forty minutes.”

 

“No, Master.”

 

Stiles sounds more confused than angry, which only serves to make Derek even more confused himself.

 

“Well why not? Dude, you let me sit here and eat your little celebration dinner and you haven’t even eaten yet? Where’s yours?”

 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know what I was meant to eat, Master. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

 

“What does that mean? I said we were having steak! Didn’t you make yourself any?”

 

Derek’s patience is beginning to diminish. Obviously he wasn’t going to have anything without Stiles’ permission. And steak? Why would Stiles even consider feeding him something so expensive? He’s still not entirely sure Stiles isn’t just messing with him.

 

“I didn’t think I was allowed to.”

 

“Of course you’re allowed to! When was the last time you even ate?”

 

Derek doesn’t know whether he hates himself, Stiles, or the universe more, at the moment.

 

“Yesterday morning,” he admits.

 

Stiles gapes.

 

“Seriously? You must be starving! Oh my God, I’m starving you! I’m the worst person ever.”

 

He pushes back from his chair and says, “Sit.”

 

Derek awkwardly lowers himself to the floor, hands clasped in his lap.

 

“Not- not on the-” Stiles says, flailing. “Look, just- sit in the chair,” he orders, jabbing at the chair he had just vacated.

 

Derek rises hastily and crosses to where Stiles stands, taking a seat.

 

“I’m gonna make you dinner,” Stiles says, walking over to the fridge. “And then we’re gonna have ice cream. Both of us. Okay?”

 

“Yes, Master.”

 

“Yes, _Stiles_.”

 

“Yes, Stiles,” Derek repeats.

 

It comes out in the same tone in which he would say ‘Master’.

 

Stiles just sighs.

 

* * *

 

Derek’s experienced lots of things. Embarrassing things. Painful things. Torturous things.

 

But when it comes to awkward things, he thinks that having your owner make and serve you dinner, attempting to make small talk, then offering you ice cream may take the cake.

 

He had watched Stiles as carefully as he could from the corner of his eye while he prepared the food, but he didn’t appear to be doing anything terrible to it. No awful spices, no laxatives, no poison. Just one big, juicy, divine-smelling steak a lá awkwardness.

 

“Here ya go,” Stiles had finally said, setting a plate down in front of him.

 

He’d made the most excruciatingly uncomfortable conversation ever, but Derek honestly couldn’t’ve cared less, because he was eating _meat_ , and not from a can or hand-fed to him by a raging psychopath.

 

Then Stiles had pulled out the ice cream. Derek hadn’t had ice cream since he was a teenager, and while the taste of chocolate was good, even better was the taste it brought of family and home and _pack_ , but if Stiles noticed the fond look on Derek’s face, he didn’t comment.

 

“So,” Stiles says, picking up Derek’s bowl and depositing it in the sink, along with his own, when he’s done. “That good?”

 

“It was very good, Master. Thank you.”

 

He leaves it there, because he’s still not sure if this is something like the calm before a storm, or if thanking Stiles with sincerity in his voice would lead Stiles to mock him.

 

“Awesome,” Stiles says, grinning. A little tension seems to have faded from his shoulders. He looks so much younger when he smiles, and Derek wonders for the first time how old he actually is. Twenty-five, at least. “See, ice cream makes everything better.”

 

Derek doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he remains silent.

 

“Well, right,” Stiles continues. “I’m totally winded. You wanna get to bed?”

 

Right. Here it comes.

 

“Because if I don’t get some sleep soon, I literally might keel over.”

 

He starts walking towards the stairs and motions for Derek to follow him.

 

“I’d die happy though,” he adds, as though he’s genuinely considering the possibility of dying right there in the hallway. “Full of ice cream and steak. Not a bad way to go.”

 

Derek’s feeling kind of dazed, because Stiles had mentioned taking him to bed, but then mentioned the fact that he wanted to sleep, which meant perhaps _all_ he wanted to do was sleep? But then he starts rambling on about chocolate ice cream and asks Derek something about how much ice cream he thinks would be enough to actually entail death by ice cream, and suggests maybe that’s where _death by chocolate_ comes from, even though that’s cake and not ice cream, and Derek is just very, very confused.

 

He stops outside the guest room he’d shown Derek earlier and, blessedly, shuts up.

 

Derek takes that as his cue to step inside, so he does, Stiles behind him.

 

 _Okay, so now_ , he thinks to himself.

 

Except Stiles doesn’t walk towards the bed, or push Derek there, or make any move at all.

 

He just waves his hand around and says, “Again, sorry it’s so small, but you’ll be fine, right?” He sounds anxious, almost.

 

“Uh…” Derek has no clue what’s going on. Best to just agree. “Yes, Master.”

 

“Great,” Stiles says, backing out of the room. “Goodnight. See you in the morning.”

 

With that, he heads down to the end of the hall and into his own room, locking the door behind him.

 

Derek hasn’t been wished goodnight in years. Derek also hasn’t had his own bed in years, let alone his own room. He has to be misunderstanding, right?

 

Stiles not only didn’t want sex—apparently just because he’s tired, but hey, Derek’ll take it—but he’s giving Derek privacy and actually apologizing for the size?

 

Derek’s slept just about everywhere, from the floor to a dog bed to a cage—in fact, he’s sure the handler had mentioned something about cages to Stiles—but a real bed is something new. After standing in the doorway for another minute, Derek goes to sit on the edge of the mattress. It’s thick and soft and _nice_.

 

He focuses his hearing down the hall, and listens to the sounds of Stiles getting ready for bed. He opens and shut drawers, rustles clothing, and brushes his teeth. He doesn’t come near the door again, and Derek finally hears the click of a lightswitch and the soft creak of mattress springs as Stiles climbs into bed.

 

Derek, disbelievingly, takes that as a sign and lays back in bed himself. He stares at the ceiling, hands folded across his stomach. Laying in a bed is almost too comfortable to be comfortable, but he’s not complaining. As much as he wants to stay up and think more about his plan, and try to figure out what game Stiles is playing, his full stomach and feeling of warmth soon pull him in to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Stiles feels truly strange having another person in his house. It’d been just him and his dad for such a long time, then just him, and his only guests are usually either Scott or Lydia. He feels bad just putting Derek to bed like this, but honestly, they could probably both use the sleep.

 

He feels for the guy, and every time he opens his mouth, despite how little he says, it’s always something horrifying. Stiles certainly hadn’t signed up for this.

 

Except, he had. Deep down, he knows why he bought Derek. It was still a stupid, spur of the moment idea, and if he’d thought about it for more than a second he probably would’ve never done it, but he’d had a reason. He bought Derek because he didn’t like the way some random woman was looking at him; because he didn’t like the look on Derek’s face when he had glanced, in what he seemed to think was a sneaky manner, into the crowd; because of the fact that he seemed to think he had to be sneaky at all just to look at those who planned to buy him in the first place. That was all he had thought about. He hadn’t considered that he had no use for a slave, thought slavery was terrible to begin with, couldn’t afford him, that Derek would think of him as yet another abuser rather than a savior, or that he would be sending Derek back to his life of torture in just thirty short days.

 

Can he even bring himself to do that? He honestly doesn’t know. He can’t keep him, doesn’t want to keep him, but… after hearing what Derek’s come to expect from his life, how can he send him back to it?

 

It’d be a death sentence.

 

It’d be worse.

 

* * *

 

Derek wakes up disoriented.

 

Things hit him slowly. First, it 8:07 in the morning. Second, for whatever reason there’s a clock next to his bed, so he actually knows the time. Third, he’s in a _bed_. Last, and most substantially, this is technically Stiles’ bed, which is in Stiles’ house, the place where he, Stiles’ new slave, now resides.

_Stiles. Right._

 

Half of Derek wants to listen to his years of training and get out of bed. After all, he should’ve been up exactly two hours and thirty-seven minutes ago. On the other hand, he’d also like to lie in bed and never move again, see how long till Stiles’ promise of peace falls through.

 

And again: _Stiles_. _Right_.

 

He listens down the hall for any signs of his master stirring, but Stiles’ breaths are still coming slow and even. Derek drags himself from bed, thanking his stars; he doesn’t want to seem like he’s slacking on the first day of the job. He makes the bed and trods down the stairs, trying to get some picture of what to do first. The floors could do with a mopping, the shelves a dusting, and the bathroom a solid cleaning. He simply doesn’t feel like doing that last one right now though, so he starts off with the rest.

 

By nine, he’s left the stairs and flooring in immaculate condition, done a load of laundry and started a second, and is halfway through the dusting. As he works, he lifts a picture frame off a high shelf to wipe under it. He somehow catches himself looking at it, a black and white photo in a fancy frame, a stark contrast to the rest of the house. From the picture a beautiful woman, a man in a sheriff’s uniform, and a child missing his two front teeth smile up at him. The kid, who Derek supposes must be Stiles, sits on a tire swing hanging from a tree. He remembers, then, something he hadn’t thought of in years. It was small, insignificant, and Derek couldn’t’ve been older than ten, on a different tire swing, in a different backyard. Still, the memory of it, like any memories of his family, now seems like the world to him.

 

_“Mom! Mom, Derek bit me!” Cora whines, sniffling dramatically._

_“Did not!”_

_“Did so!”_

_“Not!”_

_“So!”_

_“Not!”_

_“So!”_

_“Ugh, shut up!” Laura calls from where she's laying n the grass, sunbathing. “You’re gonna heal in like three seconds, no one cares!”_

_“Mooooooooooooom!” Cora calls again._

_Talia comes outside, taking Cora’s arm in her hand and inspecting it. Derek hadn’t even broken skin._

_“Derek?” she asks, and crouches in front of him. “Did you bite Cora?”_

_“No,” he lies, pouting._

_“Derek,” she says, tapping a gentle finger against his chest. “You’re gonna have to get a little better at lying before you can get your heartbeat past an alpha,” she tells him. “Now, did you bite Cora?”_

_"She wouldn’t get off the swing,” Derek says, switching tactics._

_“That’s no excuse,” Talia chastises. “Tell Cora you’re sorry.”_

_“I’m sorry, Cora,” he says grudgingly._

_“’s okay, Derbear.”_

_He growls at her petname as she skips away, smiling once more._

_He thought Talia would let him go back to playing then, but instead she reaches out and takes his little hands in hers._

_“What are we, Derek?” she asks quietly._

_“Werewolves,” he answers, looking at her curiously._

 

_She’d said it a few times before, usually teasingly when they rough-housed a little too hard, but he’d always found it strange._

_“And what aren’t we?”_

_“Monsters.”_

_“That’s right,” she says, seemingly satisfied. Then, softer, with a seriousness Derek didn’t understand till years later, “Always remember that, Derek.” Then, her tone light once more, “So we don’t_ bite _, got it?”_

 

“Hey whatcha doing?” a voice from behind suddenly pulls him from his thoughts. He had somehow allowed Stiles to sneak up on him, and drops the picture frame in surprise.

 

Stiles, with surprising skill compared to normal, grabs it out of the air before it crashes.

 

It seems he hadn’t realized what Derek was holding till it’s in his own hand.

 

Derek, who had been expecting some sort of reprimand, is surprised by the way Stiles face softens.

 

“Oh,” he says quietly, staring at the picture for a moment then back to Derek.

 

Derek doesn’t know what to do here, whether to apologize or just resume his cleaning or something else. Instead, his body decides to root him to the spot.

 

Stiles stares at back at the picture and murmurs, “Haven’t really looked at this in a long time. That’s my mom.” Derek, obviously, hadn’t asked, and he doesn’t know why Stiles thinks a slave would care, but he listens anyway. “She’s- she was… she was great.” He smiles a little. “And that’s my dad. And me,” he says, pointing unnecessarily. His eyes seem to cloud over a little, and Derek feels like Stiles is almost talking to himself now. “Look at Dad, all young and healthy. And Mom…” he trails off, face saddening a little. “She was so pretty.”

 

It’s weird, standing here listening to Stiles reminisce over his small family, over his mother, who Derek guesses must be dead. He knows what that feels like.

 

Watching Stiles like this, seeing the vulnerability and the loss, it somehow makes him seem more human. Derek never thought he’d use that word in a positive way again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think!;)


	5. Chapter 5

“Lydia?” Stiles asks, when someone picks up the phone.

 

“Guess again.”

 

“Hey, Danny, how ya doin’ man?” Stiles greets. He’s not Lydia, but it’s good to hear from him.

 

“Life’s good,” Danny says. “Jackson made pancakes this morning, so I can’t complain.”

 

“Sounds great.”

 

“Want some? All it takes is one bite and an adoption certificate.”

 

“Haha,” Stiles mutters. Jokes like that are suddenly a whole lot less funny. “Anyway, how’re you liking the new guy?”

 

“Ethan?” he asks, then lowers his voice. “The new, muscular, hot, tall, blond one? I’d say he’s alright.”

 

Stiles snorts.

 

“I think he’s liking it here, too,” Danny adds. “He seemed kinda surprised with how cool Jackson is around me, but I think he’s getting used to it.”

 

“Could it also be because he likes the new, muscular, tall, hot Hawaiian who happens to live in his new house?” Stiles teases.

 

“Here’s hoping.”

 

“Well lemme know how it goes,” Stiles laughs. “So is Lydia around?”

 

“Mmmmm,” Danny says, and Stiles guesses the pause is to check for her heartbeat. “Upstairs, yeah. One sec.”

 

There’s the thump of the stairs and a quick rustling, then a prim, “Hello?” from the other end.

 

“Lydia, hey.”

 

“Stiles,” she says, more amiable now. “How’re things going with…?”

 

“Derek,” he supplies.

 

“Derek.”

 

“It’s awful,” he moans, in full awareness of the fact that he sounds like a whiny child.

 

“Bad behavior?”

 

“Good behavior. Way too good. Like I’ve-had-manners-programmed-into-me-like-a-robot good. Except instead of programmed, it’s beaten.”

 

“Are you serious?” she asks, voice sharp.

 

“Wouldn’t exactly joke about it,” he says, dragging a hand over his face.

 

“Did he say so himself?”

 

“It was pretty clearly implied.”

 

He goes on, rattling off about everything that’s happened with him so far, and Lydia listens intently as he explains the situation.

 

“-and when I sent him to bed last night, he was acting pretty weird about it. And he keeps saying all this stuff that feels so ambiguous, except I can’t figure out the other meaning. I feel like he’s testing me all the time, and I’m pretty sure he feels the same way about me, and I’m also pretty sure that’s a very unhealthy way for two people to live. Oh! And he keeps calling me ‘Master’ every three seconds and kneeling and bowing and stuff, which is kind of creepy, and I seriously can’t figure out if his past owners are crazy or he’s crazy or if this is all some big plot to kill me in my sleep or _what_.”

 

“Stiles have you actually… _seen_ any slaves, besides Danny?”

 

“What?”

 

“I mean, think about it. How many have you seen?”

 

“I’ve seen them!” he says, suddenly feeling defensive, though he’s not sure why. “Of course I’ve seen them.”

 

“Where?”

 

He pauses for a moment, trying to think. They usually stay at home, and Beacon Hills is such a small town, it’s uncommon to own one in the first place. He’s never really been far out of Beacon Hills either, but…

 

“I don’t know,” he admits.

 

“How much do you really know about them?” she prompts.

 

This conversation is making him incredibly uncomfortable. How could he know so little about something that was so ingrained into society? Then again, maybe that’s why. Maybe they were just so embedded into culture that he never really stopped to think about them. In school they'd always spent much more time on ancient river valley civilizations than the Were Act. Werewolf slaves have been a part of life for so long, they’re really just something that… _is_.

 

“I don’t know,” he says, put out. “I mean they live in the house and do chores with no pay and they can be pretty dangerous.”

 

“Right,” she says. “And they also don’t count as citizens, so…”

 

“So they have no rights.”

 

“Right.”

 

“So people can do whatever they want to them?”

 

“Basically.”

 

“But-”

 

“I’m not saying it’s common,” Lydia quickly interjects. “But Derek could’ve had a really shitty old owner and now he’s stuck in his ways.”

 

“You don’t think it’s common, do you?” he asks. This entire situation is making him feel like a small, naïve child.

 

“It can’t be, people would know about something like that. Ethan did the whole bowing and kneeling and “Mistress and Master” thing too last night, till Danny talked to him. He didn’t seem abused though, it was just like that’s what he’s always been told to do, and he does it. Almost like a butler or something.”

 

That makes Stiles feel the slightest bit better. Lydia has to be right. There’s no way abuse could be that common, even with a lack of rights. It would be all over the news, there would be activist groups, _something_. Derek had to have just come from a really bad home.

 

 _It happens to people, too,_ Stiles reminds himself. _People get abused, and it’s terrible, but that doesn’t mean all of them are. Something like this could never be kept under wraps... Right?_

“Well how am I supposed to get Derek to believe I’m not like that?”

 

Lydia’s silent for a while longer before finally saying, “I don’t know.”

 

“What do you mean you don’t know? You can’t not know! You’ve been living with a werewolf for years, you have to know this kind of stuff!” If he’s beginning to sound a little desperate, it’s probably because he is.

 

“But that’s different, he and Jackson are best friends, there was never any servant and master stuff going on.”

 

“Well I guess I should’ve told him yesterday about not having meant to buy him, huh?” Stiles says crossly. It’s not really Lydia’s fault, she never could’ve expected Stiles would’ve picked up an abused one, but man it would’ve made things less complicated.

 

“No,” Lydia says firmly. “Wouldn’t’ve made a difference. I thought he’d be better off not knowing because even ones who aren’t abused don’t _like_ slavery. If you’d tried to apologize to someone from a perfectly good home, you still probably would’ve pissed them off. Even if you’re not beating them, you’re still making them live in your house and eat what you buy them and keeping them from their families.”

 

Stiles opens his mouth to protest but Lydia continues, “Not you specifically, maybe, but you as a species. You’re oppressing them by existing, and there’s nothing you can do about that.” After a silence on both ends, she adds, “So am I. All of us are. Jackson loves Danny, but don’t think for a second he wouldn’t let him go if he could. But he can’t, because as a whole, no one’s trying to change this.”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles mutters. “I’d let Derek go too, if I could.”

 

“But you can’t,” Lydia says, matter-of-factly. “So instead you just have to treat him like he’s free as much as you can. And who knows, maybe a few friends would do him some good, too. Why don’t you drop by for dinner with him soon?”

 

“Will do,” Stiles says.

 

“Good. Well, I’ve gotta get going. We’re picking up some new clothes for Ethan today. Talk to you later.”

 

“Bye,” Stiles says, and the line goes dead.

 

He puts the phone down and rubs his temples, mentally reviewing everything Lydia had said.

 

He’s oppressing Derek by existing.

 

Well isn’t that just wonderful? 

 

* * *

 

Derek sits on the couch, bored out of his skull. After the picture incident, Stiles had made them breakfast—and no, apparently no matter how many times your owner cooks for you, it’s doesn’t get any less weird—and then gone off to make a phone call. He’d left Derek sitting on the couch, and told him to ‘do whatever you want’.

 

There are CDs and movies and a TV, all of which Derek is sure are off limits. There’s also a bookshelf in the corner, haphazardly stacked with books of all ages and colors and sizes. He stares at it wistfully, wishing in the corniest way to run his fingers over their spines and smell the aged pages and _read_ them. God, it’s been a long time since he was allowed to read a book. Instead, he sits on his cushion, glumly searching the rest of the room with his eyes. He can’t even do housework, as Stiles had told him it wasn’t his job, even though it’s kind of _exactly_ his job, and insisted he stop cleaning.

 

If he can’t actually do anything for Stiles, he may as well do something productive for himself. He crosses his leg over his knee and stares at the tracker on his ankle. There must be some way to remove it. He can’t now, of course, but once he gets in touch with Isaac and gets everything rolling, he’s certainly going to need to rid himself of this thing. Stiles had called the facility over breakfast, who’d answered about removing it with a resounding _No_ , insisting that Derek is dangerous would certainly run off, and said the same about the collar. Well, they were half right. Derek had known they’d never agree unless Stiles tried to bring up some sort of charges against them for hindering his use of his property, which he could never afford. After the call Stiles had kept blabbering on about his friend’s wolf, who Derek is quite sick of hearing about at this point, seeing as he apparently lives some sort of ridiculous life of luxury, seemingly not understanding that he came from a rich family, so of course they could do what they wanted. Aside from this guy, Derek has never heard of someone with either device removed. Lucky bastard.

 

No matter. Derek’ll just have to figure out some way to get it off himself, and where there’s a will there’s a way. Hopefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter- the phone call, namely, because they might not know as much as they think they do- was really complicated and I actually wrote six versions before I settled on this one. Expect another update soon since this was what's been troubling me for a while, and now it's out of the way. Anyway, please please please let me know what you thought of this one! Thanks!
> 
> (Also, I'm dying to let you guys in on what Derek's plan actually _is_ , but all in good time.)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something personal came up and I wasn't able to post last weekend; I'm really sorry!

“I need to go shopping,” Stiles announces as he enters the room. Derek is sitting exactly where Stiles left him, and it’s a little creepy, but he thinks maybe it’s better not to mention it. “I need to pick you up a few things.”

 

Unsurprisingly, Derek doesn’t say anything, only frowns. But hey, a frown is a facial expression is progress, right?

 

“Do you want to come?”

 

“Do you want me to come?"

 

“Do you _want_ to come?”

 

Conversations with Derek are a bit repetitive, to say the least.

 

“If you need me to carry something for you, I’d be happy to come.”

 

He doesn’t look happy.

 

“No,” Stiles says. “I mean like, I’m buying stuff for you, so if you want to see what I’m buying you can come, or if you want to stay here I’m not gonna make you. I hate shopping, so I totally get that.”

 

Derek seems to be feeling a little bolder today, and asks, “What do you need to buy, Stiles?”

 

“Clothes,” Stiles says, doing his best to ignore the stiff way Derek uses his name. Maybe it’s better to just get used to it. “Didn’t even think about it till Lydia mentioned it to me this morning, but you definitely need some new clothes,” he adds, gesturing to Derek’s torn jeans and t-shirt.

 

Derek looks surprised, which Stiles tries not to think too much about.

 

“I don’t think a store owner would appreciate me coming inside with you,” Derek says.

 

“Seriously?”

 

Derek nods.

 

“Alright, um… why don’t you make me a list of clothes you need and I’ll just go pick them up?”

 

He rummages in a drawer for a second and pulls out a pad of paper and a pen, holding them out to Derek, who takes them hesitantly.

 

“Great,” Stiles says. “I’m gonna go get ready, you can give me that when I’m done.”

 

With that, he turns and jogs up the stairs, into his room.

 

* * *

 

Clothes.

 

Freaking _clothes_.

 

Stiles doesn’t want to buy a cage, or wolfsbane, or dog food. He wants to buy Derek clothes.

 

A large part of Derek wants to refuse them, because he still doesn’t know what Stiles is doing and it makes him wary, but a stupid little voice in the back of his mind keeps insisting that _Maybe Stiles is actually just trying to be nice,_ and that _There has to be genuinely nice people in the world somewhere, right?_

 

Derek tells the voice to shut up.

 

In ten minutes Stiles is back down, and takes the notepad Derek hands him, shoving it in his pocket.

 

He starts to turn around but abruptly stops, turning back to face Derek.

 

“I can…” he pauses, cringing. “I can leave you here, right? You’re not gonna…?” He looks so guilty it’s almost laughable. “You’re not gonna try to leave or anything, are you?”

 

Derek gestures at his ankle bracelet. “I can’t. And I wouldn’t.”

 

“Right,” Stiles says, but the mention of the tracker just makes him look even more upset. “Of course not, sorry. Just… making sure. But hey, do whatever you want while I’m gone, just… stick around here. You don’t need to clean or anything so don’t worry about it.”

 

“Yes, Stiles. Thank you, Stiles.”

 

“Sure,” Stiles says, and Derek would be lying if he said the way the man is squirming isn’t amusing. “I’ll see you later.”

 

Derek nods, and Stiles hightails it out the front door.

 

Left alone on the second day. Damn. Stiles really is new at this.

 

* * *

 

Stiles stares at Derek’s pathetically small shopping list as he wheels his cart around the store.

 

_A ~~long-sleeved~~ shirt_

_Pair of jeans_

_Socks?_

_Underwear_

_Thank you_

He asked for one day’s worth of clothes, barely. Not that Stiles could exactly afford a full on shopping spree, but he’d at least expected shoes to make the list, and maybe multiples of things. He’s going to need more than one outfit, even if Stiles still doesn’t know how long he’s going to be around.

He adds a few more shirts to the cart—long-sleeved, as per Derek’s self-denied request—and a few pairs of jeans, mostly doing what he hopes is good guesswork on the sizes. Derek’s a little taller than he is, and quite a bit more muscular, but he figures one size up should suffice.

 

He’ll go shoe shopping next, and then maybe pick himself up a few things. He should really get home and try to spend some time with Derek, but then again, Derek’s probably enjoying a little alone time.

 

* * *

 

Derek hates alone time.

 

In this house, at least, where he doesn’t know his boundaries. Normally, alone time is a blessing. He’s left to do his chores, and probably not beaten since he’s, well… alone.

 

But in Stiles’ house, there’s nothing to do except stare at the walls, and he'd already done his fair share of that this morning. He wonders, briefly, if Stiles has any sort of protective passwords on his electronics, but quickly scraps the idea. Even if he doesn’t, Derek hasn’t used a computer in ages and probably wouldn’t know how to delete his search history, which could lead to a disaster of epic proportions. One thing he knows isn’t locked is Stiles’ bedroom, and after spending a good forty minutes doing absolutely nothing, he decides maybe a little snooping on his new master is in order. As long as he’s careful, Stiles would never know.

 

He gets up and crosses the room, heading up the stairs to stand outside Stiles’ bedroom. He swings the door open and pokes an experimental foot in, not as surprised as he should be to find no mountain ash barrier. Idiot.  

 

He steps all the way in, and slowly turns around. The room is strange, looking almost as though it belongs to a teenager. It’s impressively messy, which is all the better for Derek. If he puts things back slightly out of place, Stiles would never be able to tell in the hurricane site of a room. He doesn’t know where to start, really, or what exactly he’s looking for.

 

Some damning evidence, that’s what it is. Something Stiles had perhaps bought beforehand; the gag, the whip, the wolfsbane infused _something_ that’ll prove Derek right. Why he wants to be proved right, that’s a mystery in and of itself. Perhaps for the same reason that people in horror movies call out into the darkness when they hear a creak in the night. _Hello? Is someone there?_ As though the axe murderer is going to yell back at them that indeed, he’s crouched behind the armchair in the living room, and that they should probably call the police. It’s irrational and stupid, and only serves to let the killer know where they’re hiding. They do it though, anyway, and Derek thinks he gets it; the only thing worse than knowing what’s in store for you is not knowing. And Stiles? He’s left Derek entirely in the dark.

 

* * *

 

“Here we are,” Stiles announces as he walks in the front door. 

 

Derek stares as he dumps an armful of shopping bags on the couch.

 

“Have at it,” Stiles says, waving his hand and throwing himself in the armchair.

 

Derek looks back over at him, wondering if he should bring the bags to Stiles’ room or something. “Should I bring them upstairs, Stiles?”

 

“You wanna see them first, don’t you? I don’t really know what kinda clothes you like, but I figured anything’s probably better than that,” Stiles says. “Go ahead. They’re all yours except that blue one on the end. I needed some new sneakers.”

 

Derek wants to question him further, because surely all the bags aren’t his. He’d asked for so few things, so why would Stiles buy this much? Unless it’s a bunch of really creepy, skimpy stuff, and Stiles is going to be one of _those_ owners.

 

Well, those fears are assuaged when, under Stiles’ expectant gaze, he opens the first bag. He pulls out four pairs of jeans, and steals a quick look at Stiles before unfolding a pair and holding them out in front of himself.

 

“Hopefully those are a decent size? You can try everything on later, if you want. If something doesn’t fit I’ll just take it back, no biggie.”

 

They do look to be his size is both length and waist; they’re not overly tight, nor are they ripped.  Just… jeans.

 

“Seven of everything was a little… expensive…” Stiles says, his face red. “But between us we can definitely do enough laundry a week, right?”

 

Derek nods and puts them back in the bag, picking up another and pulling out some shirts. There’s four of those too, henleys, and a third bag has four undershirts. Then seven pairs of socks. A pair of sneakers. Two packages of underwear.

 

“I didn’t know what kind,” Stiles interjects sheepishly. “Bought both.”

 

He makes it to one of the last bags and pulls out the contents. It’s a jacket, black and leather, just like his favorite one back home was. _Just_ like it. Probably from the same store chain, not _super_ expensive but surprisingly nice, still being manufactured all these years later, with the same buttons and zipper and pockets. The only difference is the smell, clean and fresh instead of home and family and pack, and it kind of makes him want to throw up, because what the hell is with all the memories today? This never happens and that’s the way Derek likes it. He’s vaguely aware of Stiles talking in the background, something about _it’ll be getting cold soon_ and _not everyone likes leather but it seemed like something Derek might like_ and _dude are you okay, you’re looking kinda green_ and _I can take it back, if you don’t like it_ and that one catches Derek’s attention and-

 

“No,” he says, voice a lot tighter than he’d meant. “No, thank you,” he corrects, clearing his throat. “It’s nice. Thank you, Stiles.” He doesn’t know if he means it or not, if he’s actually grateful for this reminder that, even while being just like his old one, is so, so different. But that’s very dramatic and emotional, and Derek Hale does not get worked up over leather jackets, thank you very much, so he compartmentalizes and says, “Thank you,” one more time, before hastily shoving it back in the bag.

 

“Right,” Stiles says, still looking a little concerned. “No problem.” He stands from the couch, clearing his throat as though it’ll clear away the awkwardness in the room, and picks up the last of Derek’s bags himself. “This,” he says, wrinkling his nose in distaste as he unfolds a blue button-up, “is for Lydia’s house. She invited us over sometime this week, and her dinners are usually kinda formal. Ish. Nothing to be worried about. You don’t really even have to wear it if you don’t want, but- yeah. Here.”

 

Derek takes the shirt as Stiles passes it to him, putting it back in the bag. He’s not too keen on meeting Lydia, but all this new stuff doesn’t put him in the position to be ungrateful for any of it, especially since everything, especially that jacket, must’ve cost quite a bit, and he hadn’t even asked for most of this. He reminds himself not to be too terribly thankful, because he’s Stiles’— _eye roll of the century—_ property and he should damn well be providing for him, but… that doesn’t mean he has to buy clothes that are nice, or comfortable, or appropriate to wear in the presence of small children. Not that Derek knows any, but still. So, he lets himself be a little appreciative. Secretly. It’s none of Stiles’ business, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Mildly grateful Derek doesn't equal trustful Derek, so don't think the angst is even close to over;)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were a lot of really sweet comments last chapter, so thank you guys! I love hearing what you think!:)

“I work from home, you know,” Stiles tells him over lunch the next day.

 

Not that Derek had asked, but, okay. He’d been mildly curious whether or not Stiles was even employed anyway, or if he was going to have to deal with the man all day, every day. Apparently it’s the latter.

 

“I write,” Stiles continues, when it becomes obvious that Derek isn't answering.

 

It seems oddly fitting for Stiles; the slightly quirky, single guy with the messy house and ‘starving artist’ thing going on. Yeah, Derek can see it. He wonders what Stiles’ books are about. Maybe his next one will be _Werewolves: How Many Days Can They Last without a Meal?_ and he wants his information to be very scientifically accurate. And maybe, maybe that would be a little melodramatic, but Derek can tell you for a fact it’s nineteen.

 

“None of it’s doing so hot,” Stiles says, encompassing his entire living situation with a flick of his wrist. “But it pays the bills, and what else can I ask?”

 

A multi-million dollar book deal might be nice, not that Derek’s going to point it out. Besides, as a general rule, filthy rich people are more annoying to deal with, both for other humans, and especially for werewolves.

 

“They’re fantasy,” Stiles goes on, seemingly content to have a conversation with himself. “I’m writing something about dragons right now.” He takes another bite out of his sandwich. “I guess you guys were considered fantasy at one point too though, huh?” he muses.  

 

Those were the good old days, Derek thinks. Back before man knew that there was a stronger version of himself out there and decided he must conquer it. There were hunters then too, of course, but a few wolves a year being taken out by hunters would be nothing compared to this.

 

“-and I didn’t wanna be all unoriginal but J.R.R and J.K.R already took a huge chunk of the really cool mythical creatures, you know? So I was like, okay, I’ll keep dragons as my main, but there’s also gonna be a ton of other, never-before-used stuff. So I spend a good bit of my time these days researching ancient monsters and what kinds of powers they were thought to have and things like that. It’s pretty cool.”

 

“That sounds interesting, Stiles,” Derek finally agrees, and Stiles positively beams at him.

 

“Thanks.”

 

Cue a twenty minute lecture on the history of the kanima. Whatever the hell _that_ is.

 

* * *

 

“So,” Stiles says carefully. He’s bent over the sink washing dishes while Derek sits at the kitchen table. “How would you feel if we went to Lydia’s tonight?”

 

Stiles knows by now that Derek doesn’t like ‘how would you feel about […]’ questions. That’s not going to stop him from asking them, though. He doesn’t want to make Derek uncomfortable, but he hopes he’ll eventually get used to telling Stiles what it is that he wants and what he’s comfortable with, and the only way he’s going to do it is with practice.

 

“If you want to go to Lydia’s then it sounds nice, Stiles.”

 

Stiles doesn’t miss the way that Derek sounds even more closed off than usual. Not just _I-hate-talking-to-you_ closed off, but _this-question-in-particular-bothers-me-more-than-other-questions-and-I’m-not-going-to-tell-you-why_ closed off.

 

“We don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” Stiles says, shooting for nonchalance. “But she and Jackson want to meet you, and maybe some time with Danny and Ethan would be fun for you.”

 

He’d almost said _good for you_ , but didn’t want to imply that there was a problem with Derek that something might be _good for_. Not that there’s not a problem. There is, and they’re both keenly aware of it, but not mentioning seems to be everyone’s preferred course of action at the moment.

 

“I don’t mind going,” Derek says, voice still perfectly level.

 

Saying that he doesn’t mind at least implies he thinks he has some kind of choice, even if he doesn’t actually think so, which is probably, technically progress. If you squint.

 

“Cool,” Stiles says. “I think you’re really gonna like everyone.”

 

Derek makes a noncommittal noise in his throat, but aside from that, he leaves all sarcasm out of his voice when he says, “I’m sure I will.”

 

* * *

 

Derek pulls clothes for tonight out of the bags. Stiles had said they’re leaving in an hour or so, and Derek figured being ready as early as possible would probably please him. Stiles had given Derek one of his ties, plain black, but it matches well enough with the pair of dark jeans Derek’s searching for.

 

He wonders what these people are going to be like. Stiles never shuts up about them, but naturally his opinion of them will be infinitely different then Derek’s, especially if they own two slaves. He rolls his eyes at the thought of how he’ll have to be so formal in front of them. From what Stiles has said, Ethan and Danny can do basically whatever they want, and it’ll be pretty humiliating for Derek to have to kneel while those two sit at the table, where they’ll certainly be laughing at him. Though, Ethan might be decent, he reminds himself. He’d come from the same auction as Derek, and while the Calaveras certainly weren’t the worst traders Derek’s been with, they weren’t the best, either. Beacon Hills doesn't seem like the kind of town they would normally bother stopping in.

 

He starts to wonder if he’s perhaps actually met Ethan before as he begins buttoning up his shirt. Which, apparently, really doesn’t want to button. He makes it past his stomach just fine, but when he reaches his chest, it’s a different story. Stiles had told Derek he didn’t have to wear the shirt when he bought it, but the sincerity of that offer was unlikely. He wonders if Stiles bought such a small shirt on purpose. It’s not something Derek would brag about—it’s actually something he hates about himself, because it’s something all his owners loved—but his chest is undeniably muscular. He has a six pack that’s no source of joy either, being only half from strength, and otherwise from hunger. And above that his well-built chest leads to powerful arms, which are also filling out his shirt quite prominently.

 

He eventually manages to close the last button and goes to look in the bathroom mirror. The shirt is straining in a way that would have had any of his past owners immediately ordering him to take it off, but not for the reason Derek would’ve liked. He ties his tie and adjusts it to pathetically cover as much as he can. Of course Stiles would want his new purchase to look as impressive as possible when he shows his friends. Derek should’ve expected as much.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, so according to google your tracker is connected to this keychain thing they gave me so as long as I keep it on my keys and you stay within like ten thousand feet of me we’re fine. So I think that’s a decent amount of wiggle room for us. I’m gonna start the car and you can- woah.”

 

Stiles gapes when he turns around to see Derek standing at the bottom of the stairs. Derek, who’s wearing a very, _very_ tight shirt. His muscles bulge through it from every angle, and Stiles guesses behind his tie it must be struggling to stay on.

 

Derek wears a completely blank look, like his shirt isn’t about to shred into pieces at any moment.

 

“How’d you- why- how the heck did you even get that _on_?”

 

To his credit, Derek doesn’t even glare at him.

 

“It took a minute.”

 

“Yeah, I see that. But okay, that wasn’t really the question I was going for. Just… why are you wearing that?”

 

“You bought it for me, Stiles.”

 

“I know, but _God_. It’s a little tight, don’t you think?”

 

“Yes, Stiles.”

 

“Well why are you wearing it then? Geez, how are you even breathing?”

 

Derek apparently doesn’t know what to say, so Stiles continues, “You didn’t think I wanted you to wear it like that, did you?”

 

“You said you wanted me to wear this to Lydia’s house when you bought it, so I assumed you meant tonight.”

 

“Well _yeah_ , but I didn’t realize it was that small. If I ever ask you to do something that seems _absolutely insane_ , you can assume there’s some sort of misunderstanding.” He pauses for a moment and adds, “Not that this is your fault, Derek. If anything, it's mine. So I’m not annoyed at you, if that’s what you think. Next time I ask you to do something that seems ridiculous, just ask me about it first so you know there’s not some kind of mix up. Here, why don’t you go put another shirt on, any of the regular ones I bought you are fine. Lydia won’t say anything. I’ll be in the car when you’re done, okay?”

 

“Yes, Stiles. Thank you.”

 

“No problem, dude,” Stiles mutters as Derek heads back upstairs.

 

He walks out to his car and turns the ignition, trying hard to ignore the knot forming in his stomach over the fact that Derek would probably never come to him about a request that seems unreasonable.

 

He doesn’t seem to find _anything_ to be over the top, and that makes Stiles’ chest hurt more than that shirt must’ve made Derek’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Off to Lydia's house next chapter! Get ready to meet Danny, Ethan, and Jackson!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the nice comments last chapter!

“That looks way comfier,” Stiles says of Derek’s henley, rolling down the window as he approaches.

 

Derek stops outside the car, hovering there till Stiles says, “You can take shotgun.”

 

He opens the door and slides in, and Stiles pulls from the curb.

 

“So Scott can’t come tonight. Actually, did I even tell you about Scott?” he asks.

 

“No, Stiles.”

 

“Huh. Funny. Well, Scotty’s my best friend. Best guy you’ll ever meet. Just, ya know, not tonight. He’s got God-knows-what going on. He always seems to skip out on Lydia’s dinners, even though he loves her and Jackson. He likes my house better, I think. But you don’t have to think about him now, let’s just see how tonight goes. Not that it won’t go great.”

 

Stiles babbles all the way there.

 

* * *

 

“Stiles, hey,” a redheaded woman says, pulling Stiles in for a hug from the doorway.

 

She shifts them so Stiles ends up in the house behind her, and she turns back to Derek, sticking out a hand.

 

“Hi, Derek,” she greets. “I’m Lydia.”

 

Derek carefully shakes her hand and then drops to one knee on the doorstep.

 

“Nice to meet you, Mistress,” he says, bowing his head for a second before standing back up.

 

Stiles is staring at him like he’s grown a third arm, and Derek suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. The look Lydia is giving him is somewhere between calculating and pitying, and she says, “You don’t need to bow to me, Derek. Don’t worry.”

 

Derek can smell the discomfort rolling off Stiles, and doesn’t really want to deal with the man’s million questions, so he says, “Yes. Sorry, Mistress,” and steps inside after her.

 

“You don’t need to call her ‘mistress’ either, Derek. ‘Lydia’ is fine.”

 

“Yes, Stiles. Sorry, Stiles.”

 

“And you can stop apologizing,” Lydia says, smiling gently, and Derek has no clue what to make of that.

 

He’s just trying to make Stiles look good by doing everything that’s expected of him, and here they go, screwing up everything he knows again. Surely these high society people would want Derek to treat them as such, no? Maybe the humans of Beacon Hills are all just a bunch of psychos.

 

“Here, why don’t I show you to the living room?” Lydia offers. “This way.”

 

She walks ahead of them through two hallways and four doors, and wow, this is a big house. He’d only had one or two owners whose homes were larger than this. She stops in front of a room where Derek can hear two heartbeats.

 

“This is Ethan and Danny,” she says, stepping inside. “Guys, this is Derek. And Ethan, this is Stiles.”

 

“I remember when I used to get introduced first,” one of the men says, walking over to Derek, the blond one in tow.

 

“Suffering first child syndrome?” Stiles laughs.

 

“Something like that,” he says, grinning. He reaches out a hand to Derek and says, “Danny. Nice to meet you.”

 

“Derek. You too.”

 

The guy, in the five seconds Derek has known him, actually doesn’t seem like nearly as big a jerk as he had expected. He had, at least, deigned to shake Derek’s hand.

 

“Ethan,” the blond says, reaching for Derek’s hand as well. “I think we’ve seen each other around once or twice.”

 

Derek could make everyone very uncomfortable and say, “Yeah, you had that little cage next to Isaac, right? And a brother? Guess they didn’t bother buying him though, huh?” but it's not Ethan he hates, and that probably wouldn’t help his cause. Instead he goes for, “I think so,” and a polite return of the handshake.

 

“Great,” Lydia says, clapping her hands together. “Why don’t we let you guys get to know each other a little, and Stiles, you can come help me with dinner.”

 

“I suck at cooking,” Stiles moans. “Just ask Derek.”

 

“I can cook,” Derek agrees immediately.

 

“Oh,” Stiles says, face going red. “I didn’t mean it like that, I just meant to, like, ask you how bad I am.”

 

“Of course, Stiles. I didn’t mean to misconstrue your intentions. I’m sorry.”

 

“It’s fine, dude. My fault,” Stiles says, patting him on the back.

 

Derek forces himself not to stiffen at the touch; Stiles had been surprisingly good about personal space so far, and he’d like to keep it that way.

 

“Don’t mind him,” Lydia says, offering Derek yet another smile. “He confuses everybody.”

 

“Hey!” Stiles gripes.

 

“C’mon,” Lydia says, dragging him back out the door. “We’ll see you three later.”

 

When they’re alone, things get painfully silent.

 

They must stand there staring at each other for a solid minute before Derek asks, “Is there something we should do?”

 

He usually feels more comfortable talking to other slaves, but not these two. Not when they aren’t of his household. Ethan’s new, so it seems doubtful he’d be too loyal. Danny, though, seems to be ridiculously friendly with his owners, which Derek had never liked much. Weres like that only made it worse for the rest of them, because owners would demand why everyone else couldn’t act more like they do. It didn’t matter if Derek was on perfect behavior, he would never be as good as their favorite. He also doesn’t miss, thanks to Stiles’ constant mention, the way neither of them are wearing a collar. Neither of their eyes seem to be wandering down to his, but he still doesn’t like having to wear it in front of them, doesn’t want them thinking they’re _better_ than him--

 

“We can watch the game if you want,” Danny says, shrugging.

 

It takes Derek a moment to realize what he’d even said, having been so wrapped up in his thoughts.

 

“What?”

 

“You asked if there was something to do. If you’re into basketball we can catch the end of the game.”

 

“Oh,” Derek says. “Alright.”

 

* * *

 

Derek is different.

 

That’s something Danny picks up on right away. Lydia had implied that they should be careful around him, but refused to give any actual information on why.

 

But Danny is not naïve. He is not a child, and he doesn’t need Lydia or Jackson, or Derek himself to tell him anything to be able to clearly see what’s happened to Derek. He’s not brainwashed, despite his upbringing in a kind household, to think that the world is a perfect place. He’s educated, not as well as a human, of course, but still. He knows how the world works. When they were kids, Jackson had always come home from school, excited to share what he’d learned with Danny. He still remembers, distinctly, when Jackson had been learning about the Were Act in his sophomore year.

 

_“What’s up with you this week?” Danny demands, standing over Jackson as he lays in bed, studying._

_“Nothing,” Jackson says, in a voice that very much betrays the sentiment._

_“Bullshit. You’ve been acting weird around me all week. Did I do something?”_

_That only seems to bother Jackson more, and he quickly sits up, waving his hand to dismiss the idea._

_“It’s not you-”_

_“What, “it’s not you, it’s me”? Pretty sure you can only use that line in cheesy rom coms, not with your best friend. C’mon, if I did something to piss you off, you have to tell me.”_

_“You didn’t,” Jackson says, and he sounds so different than he normally does, so much less confident, that Danny doesn’t even know how to react._

_“Look,” he says, trying to be more gentle.“_ Is _it you? Did you do something? You can tell me, Jax.”_

_“No.”_

_Danny rolls his eyes. He should stop pushing, knows he’s being a jerk, but they can’t just ignore whatever this is forever, and Jackson is being ridiculously cryptic._

_“If you didn’t do something, and I didn’t do something, why are you avoiding me?”_

_Jackson’s eyes flit down to the book on his bed for the briefest of moments, and then back to Danny. Danny cocks an eyebrow and reaches for the book, and Jackson goes for it at the same time, trying to reach it first._

_His efforts are wasted because, hello. Werewolf._

_If Jackson really wanted he could probably wrestle it back, and Danny might’ve let him, with how upset he looks, but instead he just sits back again, legs crossed and staring at his comforter. And seriously, what the hell? This is the least Jackson-like Danny’s ever seen him._

 

_Danny doesn’t recognize anything of importance at first, but as he flips back a few pages through the history textbook, he realizes what he’s looking at._

**_Chapter 8: The Werewolf Enslavement Act_** _,_ _glares up at him from the heading._

_“Oh.”_

_The pages are littered with drawings and photographs of werewolves in chains and cages, and heaps of dead humans, trying to show off werewolf brutality. There are sketches of glowing eyes and fangs, and werewolves that are obviously feral. Pathetic, low blow scare tactics. Disgusting propaganda._

_“That’s not what it’s like,” Jackson says quickly. “Nothing’s different, I-”_

_He looks so distraught, so unlike himself, that Danny almost feels guilty for looking._

_“It’s fine, Jackson. We both know what I am.”_

_“No,” Jackson insists. “It's not like that.”_

_He looks like he wants to say more but doesn’t know what, so Danny stays silent till he continues._

_“They never taught us this stuff before,” he says finally. “Like when we were little, they told us what it is and all that, but that was all. They never told us how brutal it all was.”_

_“We’re not brutal,” Danny says, quietly. It hurts to hear Jackson say it, to hear his best, his_ only _friend suddenly realize what the world thinks about his kind._

_“Not you,” Jackson says, eyes widening. “Us. They always made it sound like it was necessary, like we’re doing you guys a favor and helping you stay in control. But they never told us how bad it was when it actually started. What the war was really like or anything. And the book doesn’t really, either. But it makes you guys out to be monsters, and you’re not. I know you’re not. But everyone thinks that you are, and I did a lot of research on slavery and what it’s like for other Weres, and it’s messed up, Danny. It’s so fucking messed up.” He’s talking low and fast, like if he doesn’t get the words out now, he never will. “I’m sorry we did this to you.”_

_Danny stares at him, unsure of how to respond._

_“Thank you,” he finally manages. He doesn’t say, ‘it’s okay’, because it’s not. “But it’s not your fault.”_

_“Not just you guys in general. You, too, Danny. I’m sorry.”_

_“Thank you,” he says again, mouth dry._

_They’re both silent for a long time._

_“It’s kind of a good thing,” Danny offers quietly. “That you guys bought me.”_

_Jackson looks like he’s about to protest, but Danny mows over him, “Not good. But better. You guys are good to me, and it could be a lot worse.”_

_“I know,” Jackson says, with such a pained look that Danny knows he really had done his research. Maybe it’s time for Danny to do some too._

_“We’re okay,” Danny says, and he pulls Jackson in for an awkward hug. He knows neither of them will probably ever mention this again, that Jackson will probably be eternally embarrassed for having opened up like this, but it’s okay. They’re okay._

Danny knows there had been incredible deliberation over buying Ethan, no matter how Jackson acted on the outside. When he started working longer hours he’d seemed so guilty leaving Danny home, and one day he’d come to him to ask.

 

_“You said it’s better, once, to be here than out there. If you’re lonely, we’ve been thinking about adopting another Were to keep you company. We don’t want to support the auctions, but…”_

And Danny had told him okay. Something he still thinks about, wondering if it was the right decision. But seeing the way Ethan had behaved when they’d first met had told Danny his life would be undeniably better with the Whittemores.

 

There’s always more to someone than meets the eye, even if it's hard to see sometimes.

 

Jackson is not an ass.

 

Ethan is afraid. 

 

Danny is not naïve, nor is he brainwashed.

 

And Derek? Derek is different.

 

Derek is hurt.

 

Though maybe, if Danny isn’t hurt, that makes him the different one.

 

* * *

 

 

“Dinner, guys,” Lydia announces, popping her head back in the room.

 

“There’s five minutes left,” Danny says, gesturing at the TV.

 

Lydia fixes him with a look, and he stares right back. It’s actually kind of impressive, though Derek really doesn’t want to be caught in the crossfire.

 

“I swear, you’re worse than Jackson,” Lydia complains, but she looks almost fond. “Formal dinner doesn’t mean anything to anyone around here.”

 

“I’m wearing a tie,” Danny calls after her as she leaves the room. “That’s a step up!”

 

“It’s still kind of crazy when you do that,” Ethan says quietly, not taking his eyes from the screen.

 

“You can do it too,” Danny says, directing his eyes back to the TV. “She’s cool.” Even though the gesture isn’t directed at Derek, he sort of appreciates that Danny makes a point to be casual and not condescending. He actually seems like kind of a cool guy himself, even if Derek still doesn’t trust someone who thinks so highly of his owners.

 

“Yeah, sure,” Ethan mutters, but he doesn’t sound like he wants to continue the conversation, and Danny lets it drop.

 

They finish their game, Danny whooping when his team wins, and it breaks the tension in the room a little.

 

“Let’s go eat,” he says, standing and stretching out his back. “The sooner I get out of these clothes, the better.”

 

Ethan smirks and Danny grumbles, “That’s not what I _meant_ ,” and the atmosphere gets a little lighter again.

 

* * *

 

“I’m Jackson,” a man in the dining room introduces. His hair is spiked and he somehow manages to make his button up shirt look casual. Derek can kind of see where Lydia’s coming from.

 

Derek starts to lower himself a little, but casts a risky glance to Stiles, who shakes his head. No kneeling to this guy either, then.

 

“Nice to meet you, sir.”

 

“Just Jackson,” Jackson says.

 

Before Derek can apologize, Stiles pulls out the chair next to himself and says, “Come sit, Derek.”

 

Well, at least he’s not sitting on the floor. Now he just has to survive this dinner.

 

* * *

 

In respect to other dinners Derek’s been forced to attend, this one isn’t so bad.

 

He has a chair, and utensils, and food. Not such a terrible deal.

 

 Danny spends the first fifteen minutes describing every detail of the game to Jackson, and trying to get Ethan to join him. Lydia and Stiles talk about his writing, which Derek’s heard enough about, but he pretends to be fascinated anyway.

 

After a while Danny excuses himself to use the bathroom, and Jackson starts a story about something that happened at work.

 

“Hey,” someone says quietly, and it takes Derek a moment to realize it’s Ethan.

 

“Yeah?”

 

They’re speaking in voices quiet enough for only werewolves to pick up on, and Derek wonders why he waited for Danny to leave the room.

 

“You’re Derek _Hale_ , aren’t you?”

 

“Why?”

 

“Yes or no?”

 

Derek doesn’t like it, but he says, “Yes.”

 

“I have a message for you, from Isaac. It’s about your sister Cora.”

 

Derek can’t keep his jaw from dropping a little, his heart from racing.

 

Ethan glances around quickly to make sure everyone is still engrossed in their conversation, then locks his eyes on Derek’s.

 

“She’s alive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gasp! ;)
> 
> *Also, on the Jackson front: I wasn't originally planning that part, but I think this is still pretty much canon, in-character Jackson, with the hard exterior (that Stiles sees) but the vulnerable side somewhere deep down. I'm interested to hear what you guys think of him-- or any of the characters-- after this though!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, I've been really busy!

Derek wants to ask a million questions.

 

_Where is she? How do you know? Isaac told you that? Where even is Isaac? Is Cora okay? Does she have an owner? Is she safe? Is she safe? Is she safe?_

 

Cora’s alive. Cora, who had been horribly wounded in the fire, is  _alive_. Cora, who had been taken by hunters who’d been mumbling in frustration at the potential loss of profit, and not that a young girl was dying, is _alive_. Cora, Derek’s annoying, idiotic, perfect little sister is _alive_.

 

Derek can finally _fix_ some of this.

 

He stares at Ethan for a moment, trying to formulate a decent question, but all that comes out is a too-loud, choked off, “What?”

 

“What?” Stiles asks, turning to look at him. “Woah, hey, you alright? You look a little shaky.”

 

“Fine,” Derek manages. “I’m fine, Stiles. I just had something stuck in my throat.”

 

“Alright,” he says warily, turning back to his conversation.

 

Derek wants to go back to talking about Cora, but Ethan has already ducked his head back down, and neither of them miss the sidelong glances Lydia, Jackson, and Stiles keep throwing their way.

 

They both remain silent for a few moments, but when Danny’s footsteps start to approach again, Ethan murmurs, “I’ll talk to you later.”

 

Derek kind of wants to growl at him, because can he at least just get a quick ‘she’s okay’? Except maybe she’s not okay, in fact she’s _probably_ not okay, and Derek shouldn’t get his hopes up, but—but she’s alive.

 

Cora is alive.

 

* * *

 

 “I think Derek and I are gonna head home now,” Stiles says, pushing his chair back from the table.

 

It’s 9:30, and Derek has been waiting a solid two hours just for some means of escape.

 

“I’ll go grab your coat,” Ethan offers. “Can you give me a hand, Derek?”

 

Derek nods, glancing at Stiles for confirmation, because even if he really wants to go, he doesn’t want to unwittingly piss anybody off.

 

“Oh, you don’t have to,” Stiles says, already standing.

 

“It’s just that Lydia put it in my room,” Ethan says. “I’d rather get it myself, if you don’t mind.”

 

“Oh, sure, dude. Don’t wanna invade your privacy.”

 

Ethan nods politely and rises from the table, and Derek follows him out.

 

They take the stairs in silence, and neither says anything till Ethan’s shut the door of his room behind him.

 

“She’s alive,” Ethan says again when they’re safely alone. He starts talking fast and low, and Derek knows they don’t have much time. “I was talking to Isaac on auction day, and he said he probably wouldn’t see you again, but he had some news. He told me to tell anyone I trusted, and maybe if someone got sold with you, they could let you in on it. I only got to tell my brother—” and Derek’s not sure if he imagines the tinge of jealousy in his voice, that he had lost a sibling while Derek had gained one “—but it looks like I ended up getting to talk to you myself, anyway. Isaac told me he was talking to some wolves from another lot, and they were telling him about this girl named Cora. Said she was tall, with dark hair and  eyes. He wanted to make sure it wasn’t just a coincidence, and it took some asking around, but apparently they got someone who used to know her to confirm the last name. Hale. Your sister.”

 

It’s amazing, too good to be true, and Derek hates himself for asking, “It’s her? There’s no way it could be some coincidence?”

 

Ethan’s mouth goes into a thin line, before he says, “Her family died in a fire.”

 

Derek ignores the unspoken _did that happen to you_ and _oh god_ and _I’m sorry_ and everything else that usually comes with hearing about that—he’s never been happier to hear mention of the fire.

 

“That’s her.”

 

Ethan smiles, the first one Derek had seen from him, and says, “Well congrats, Derek.”

 

It’s funny, almost, except that it’s not. _Your whole family died in a fire, congrats. Your sister is alive but god knows how to get to her, congrats. She’s been a slave for all these years and maybe she would’ve been better off dead, but hey, she’s not, congrats._

 

It goes to show how screwed up their lives are when Derek smiles back.

 

“Thank you.”

 

He feels like he should do something, though he doesn’t know what. The energy and excitement and relief pent up in him is incredible, and there’s nothing he wants more than to go for a run in the woods or to let out a huge, satisfying howl. Instead, he gets to go back to Stiles’ house and sit around, pretending that nothing is different on what’s probably the best night of his life.

 

“Do you know what traders she’s with?” he finally asks. He could stand there basking in the glory of the moment forever, but they need to get back downstairs soon, and her being alive is actually _worse_ if Derek can’t get to her.

 

“I heard she was with some of the other Calaveras, but I don’t know what state. I could maybe do some more digging, you know, try contacting people and stuff. Maybe Isaac, even.”

 

Derek frowns at him; that’s way too much to ask of a stranger, and besides, it would be impossible.

 

“I can’t ask you to do that. And c’mon, you know there’s no way to get back in touch with Isaac.”

 

“Lydia and Jackson are kind of cool, in a way. They’ve actually been trying to encourage me to use the computer. Danny’s a big technology nerd, and if I could get him to show me how to clear history and stuff then maybe I could figure out how to contact the people who bought him. I’ll try calling, and if Isaac’s home alone he’ll probably answer to take the message for his owners, and I’ll talk to him.”

 

“If he’s not alone?”

 

Ethan shrugs. “I’ll pretend to be a telemarketer and try again,” he says, like it’s that simple. “The people who picked him up looked like a couple of snobs anyway, I’m sure they must go out to dinner or something once in a while.”

 

“And you trust Danny?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Then why isn’t he here?”

 

Okay, so maybe Derek shouldn’t be pushing like this. Ethan is offering to stick his neck out for him—and neither of them really know what the Whittemores are like yet, but if they’re too nice to beat him, that just means they’ll send Ethan back for behavioral issues when they find out, and that box being checked on Ethan’s paper will ensure his next owners aren’t quite so nice. The least Derek can do is try to be cooperative. But everything is falling into place far too easily, and if there’s one thing they should know between the pair of them, it’s that when life seems that simple, something’s bound to go to shit.

 

“I trust him. But I don’t trust him like he trusts Jackson. The less he knows, the better,” Ethan says slowly. Then, as an afterthought, “I really think he’s a good guy though, Derek. Don’t jump to any conclusions about him just because he’s got a good deal here.”

 

Derek shrugs noncommittally, but drops the subject.

 

“How are you supposed to get in touch with me?” he asks.

 

“Waiting for Stiles and them to get together again whenever we need to talk could take a while, and someone could buy her in the meantime. When I get updates, I’ll give you a call, too.”

 

“I’m not allowed to use the phone,” Derek says, tone bitter. Stiles might be okay—emphasis on the _might_ — so far in some respects, but acting like he’s such a nice guy while making Derek sit around doing nothing all day still grinds on his nerves. Not that slaves normally use the phone anyway, because really, who are they going to call? Still, getting to touch the remote for the first time in years would be nice.

 

“What time does he go to sleep?”

 

“Always by twelve.”

 

Ethan sighs, frustrated, but before Derek can tell him he really doesn’t need to do any of this, he says, “Alright, well if you don’t want him to find out, you’ll just have to wait by the phone for a little while every night. If I ever have something, I’ll call between 12:10 and 12:20. Make sure you answer before it even has a chance to ring once. You can’t call here because even if Lydia and Jackson don’t, Danny might hear and want to know what’s going on.”

 

“This is too big a risk for you,” Derek says, against his better judgment. He could kick himself, really, because someone is literally doing him the biggest favor of his entire life, and Derek is trying to turn him down. But that someone is a complete stranger, this plan is insane, and there’s no way he can ever repay something like this.

 

Ethan shrugs.

 

“It’s worth it.”

 

“What do you need in return?” Derek asks, because maybe that’s what this is. He actually kind of hopes that’s what it is, because how else can he allow Ethan to do this?

 

“Nothing,” Ethan says, and his heart doesn’t skip a beat. “I’ve done some stuff in the past. Gotta balance things out in the universe somehow, right?” He lets his eyes flash blue, and Derek understands. “C’mon, we should get going,” he says, grabbing Stiles’ jacket and pulling the door open.

 

“I don’t think the universe cares if you help me,” Derek tells him, letting the blue seep into his own eyes.

 

“Well, I’ll balance things out for myself then. The universe doesn’t give a shit about me anyway,” Ethan says, smirking. “Besides, if this all goes to hell, I’ll just blame the whole thing on you.”

 

Derek can’t tell if he’s kidding or not, but the side of his mind that’s still berating him for accepting this hopes he’s serious.

 

“There must be something I can do for you,” Derek says, starting towards the stairs.

 

“For me? Yeah. If you ever get sold and meet a guy just like me, except a bigger asshole, tell him that Ethan says hey.”

 

It’s just a joke, of course; they both know that the odds are infinitesimal. Still, Derek promises himself he’ll try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Ethan might seem kind of out of character right now, but we've seen what a soft side he can have, and after just losing his brother he's got a certain sense of obligation to someone who has a chance to find their sibling.
> 
> Also, check out who's got blue eyes still...


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys. So, let me start off by saying I'm really sorry for how crazily late this is. Starting a new WIP, stress, serious writer's block, and somehow deciding I didn't like how it sounded led me to decide to drop this fic. I've gotten a lot of nice comments here and on tumblr asking about whether I planned to continue--which I really, really appreciated--but I didn't think I was going to. Now I'm on summer vacation though, and I reread this last night, and I decided I would try to pick it up again. So thanks to everyone who still has it bookmarked, who's still subscribed, or who's encouraged me in any way to continue. You guys rock, and I hope everyone enjoys the next chapter<3

“So what’d you think?” Stiles asks, flopping down on the couch. He toes his shoes off while Derek politely lowers himself into the armchair. “Good to be home?”

 

“It was nice, Stiles. I was glad to be there, and I’m glad to be home.”

 

Stiles kind of scoffs, but quickly slaps a hand over his mouth. “Sorry, I guess I’m just not used to you saying things like that yet. That was- that was really rude. Didn’t mean to laugh.”

 

Derek nods, and it’s reasonable, really. He’d never actually gotten it himself. What’s the point of asking Derek what he thinks of something, only to have him lie to you, when you  _know_  he’s lying to you? It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. And yet, that’s what every owner has wanted.

 

_Did you like this awful thing, Derek?_

_I very much enjoyed the awful thing, yes. Thank you for subjecting me to such a wonderful, terrible experience._

_Of course, Derek. I know how much you love things you hate._

 

Humans are weird.

 

“Seriously though. Did you have a good time? Or… decent? I know Lydia can be a bit of a strong presence, and Jackson can be kind of a douche—I mean, he was pretty tame tonight, but you know—but they’re great people.”

 

“They seem nice,” Derek says, and it’s the truth. Not that seeming nice means much of anything.

 

“They are,” Stiles says, offering a smile. “How about Danny and Ethan? I mean, you’ve known Ethan longer than I have, really.”

 

“They seem nice, too.”

 

Ethan seems more than nice, a  _lot_  more, but showing any kind of particular enthusiasm towards him doesn’t seem like a good plan at all.  

 

“That’s great,” Stiles says, sounding genuinely pleased. “Maybe we can hang out with them again sometime.”

 

“I’d like that,” Derek says. Maybe not for the reason Stiles would like, but still. “As long as you want to, Stiles."

 

“Of course. I wanna do whatever you wanna do.”

 

“Thank you, Stiles.”

 

“Don’t bother,” Stiles says, forcing himself off the couch. “I’m gonna head off to bed, if you don’t mind. I’m exhausted. You can head up whenever.”

 

“Goodnight, Stiles.”

 

“Night.”

 

* * *

 

Derek knows it’s stupid, but he waits by the phone at the times Ethan had told him that night anyway. The first night surely won’t produce anything, and nothing will probably happen for weeks, either, but he sits there regardless.

 

At 12:18, he begins to realize how truly awful waiting here every night is going to be. It’s such a tiny timeframe, and every minute, every  _second_  Ethan doesn’t call is going to feel like a thousand. A thousand seconds for a thousand minutes for a thousand nights for a thousand weeks for a thousand months for a thousand years.

 

If it means he gets to see Cora again, though, it’s worth the wait.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Stiles is sipping coffee in the chair, and Derek’s sitting on the couch, staring out the window. After a while Stiles grabs his computer from the side table and begins typing, fervently at first, and then slowing down after a while. He keeps fidgeting, Derek notices absently, as though something is making him uncomfortable.

 

“So do you… like that?” Stiles finally asks, leaving his fingers to hover over the keyboard.

 

“Do I like what, Stiles?” Derek’s pretty sure he’s not doing anything wrong, unless he had somehow missed an implicit order. 

 

“You know, sitting there. I mean, what’re you doing? Thinking?”

 

What kind of stupid question is that? Obviously Derek is thinking. What else would he be doing? Jumping rope?

 

“Yes, Stiles.”

 

“Why don’t you go do something?”

 

“Of course, Stiles,” Derek says, slowly rising. He can feel Stiles’ eyes on him as he exits the room, but figures anything is better than counting the particles of dust that pass through both the top left and bottom right corner of Stiles’ window in a perfectly diagonal path. Only six today, so far.

 

From the kitchen he can hear the sound of Stiles slowly getting back into his work, as Derek himself tries to find something productive to do. The kitchen is pretty much spotless, and he already washed the dishes after breakfast, so now he’s a little stuck. In a manor he could go lose himself, dusting doorknobs in far off rooms, but Stiles’ house is small. Derek had done a lot of the cleaning already, and it’s not like he can do anything besides clean.

 

Still, Stiles had told him to do something, so he will.

 

The tiles could maybe, maybe do with a wash, and why not? He digs around under the sink for some cleanser and a brush, and starts at the far corner. The area near the baseboards turns out to be pretty gross, and he easily loses himself scrubbing them down.

 

He makes it halfway across the kitchen and is under the table when Stiles bustles in with his empty mug. He looks half-dead and Derek knows work is probably getting to him, and he especially knows better than to interrupt a stressed out owner, so he isn’t terribly bothered when Stiles doesn’t acknowledge his presence.

 

He rinses the mug and leaves it in the sink, and Derek thinks he’s about to leave when he turns toward one of the cabinets. He fishes around till he finds a box of granola bars, and unwraps one, shoving three-quarters of it in his mouth at once. It’s actually kind of grotesquely impressive. He swallows just enough be able to cram the last piece in his mouth, then braces himself against the counter, leaning back on it. He bobs his head as he chews, leisurely looking around the kitchen.

 

When his line of sight reaches Derek he chokes, spewing crumbs everywhere. Derek jolts upwards in surprise, managing to smash his head into the table.

 

“Shit,” he hisses, at the same time Stiles coughs out a garbled, “Ho’y c’ap!”

 

Stiles is half-choking, one hand over his mouth as he tries to regain his composure. Derek staggers out from under the table, one hand clasped to the back of his head, the other held up in a gesture of innocence as he approaches Stiles.

 

“Do you need the Heimlich?” he asks, even though he’s not really sure how that works. He would probably just end up crushing Stiles’ chest cavity. He wonders what they would write on his papers if that happened.  _Behavioral problem: killed last owner- death by granola_. Then again, they’d probably just put a bullet between his eyes.

 

“’M fine,” Stiles manages, still spluttering.

 

Derek politely looks away as he grabs a paper towel and spits into it ( _ew_ ), hunched over. 

 

After a minute or two of throat-clearing, Stiles looks up to where Derek has retreated across the kitchen, head ducked. He wonders if Stiles' red face equates to anger, embarrassment, or just a side effect of his fit. Maybe all three.

 

“I’m sorry, Stiles. I didn’t mean to startle you,” Derek says.

 

“’T’s cool, man. Why uh- why were you under the table? ” Stiles asks, still panting a little.

 

“I was cleaning the floor, Stiles.”

 

He leaves off the part about how he’s going to have to clean it again now that there’s spittle everywhere.

 

“No I uh- I see that,” Stile says, breathing starting to even out now. “I mean like, why were you cleaning the floor? Under the table?”

 

“You said I should do something. I didn’t think you would mind. I’m sorry.”

 

He knows he doesn’t sound sincere at all, but  _fuck_  his head hurts, and he’s really just not in the mood. Stiles had specifically told him he should go do something.

 

“I meant you should do something fun,” Stiles says, frowning. “I mean, I totally appreciate you cleaning, but my house, my mess, right?” he adds, grabbing another paper towel and squatting down, starting to wipe the crumbs off the floor.

 

“Yes, Stiles,” Derek says, seeing no other path than to agree. “What do you want me to do?”

 

“What do you want to do?”

 

Derek almost smiles at the thought of that kind of stupid conversations with his friends when he was younger.

 

_“What do you wanna do?”_

_“I dunno, what do_ you _wanna do?”_

_“I dunno, what do_ you _wanna do?”_

 

He decides it’s probably just better to bite the bullet. Really, they should’ve established it on day one. Usually it’s a pretty quick conversation:  _don’t touch anything_. Stiles hadn’t even bothered with that.

 

“I don’t know what I’m allowed to do, Stiles.”

 

Stiles’ brow furrows, and it seems to take a minute for it to sink in.

 

“What exactly do you mean, what you’re ‘allowed’ to do?”

 

Derek isn’t easily embarrassed after all these years, but explaining it to someone so seemingly ignorant of the world is more than a little awkward. He wonders if Stiles is just screwing with him.

 

“I don’t know what I’m allowed to touch. Or do. My past owners usually did a quick house tour, or had one of the other slaves do it, to show me what my chores are and what I’m allowed to do and not do.”

 

Not do, usually.

 

Stiles gapes at him for a second, seemingly not knowing what to say. For a writer, the guy is struck dumb an awful lot. At least, around Derek he is.

 

Finally he asks, “You haven’t been doing anything for days because you think you’re not allowed to touch my stuff?”

 

Derek nods, not allowing himself to get his hopes up.

 

“You- I- okay. Okay.” He swallows. “Let’s take that tour then,” Stiles says decisively. “Kitchen.” He sweeps his hand around to encapsulate the room. “You can use anything you want. If you’re hungry, eat. I know there’s not a ton around right now because I’m not used to feeding two people, but I’ll hit up the grocery store soon. You don’t need to ask me before you eat. You’re not my guest, you’re my roommate. Housemate. Whatever. Point is, you can eat whatever you want, and you don't have to wait for permission. And you don’t need to clean in here, either. If you could rinse off your plate when you’re done that’d be cool, but other than that don’t worry about it.”

 

Derek tries not to show too much surprise. He’s still perfectly aware that it’s either all some complex act, or that Stiles is a complete idiot and that this will only last till he realizes how valuable a companion he has on his hands. Instead he just nods again, and follows Stiles as he walks to the next room.

 

“Living room. Also use anything you want. Books, TV, couch, chairs, whatever.”

 

He doesn’t seem to understand how tight Derek’s chest is getting with everything he adds to the list. Books. A  _television_. He can only hope that Stiles won’t take it back too soon. 

 

“Except,” he adds, rubbing at the back of his neck, “my laptop. Nothing personal, I just don’t want my writing accidentally deleted or spilled on or something. Scott’s not allowed to touch it either,” he says, winking.

 

Stiles heads up the stairs, and Derek could kill him for leaving the phone off the list. If Stiles really does mean any of this, maybe he just left it off out of forgetfulness, or because he assumed Derek would have no one to call, but Derek’s not stupid enough to ask about it.

 

“Uh, obviously this is your room,” Stiles says, pausing outside the door. “I’m not really gonna come in here unless you want me to.” The door is closed but Stiles gestures as though it’s not. “The closet’s all yours, and I’ll see about maybe getting you a set of drawers or something? And we can get an alarm clock if you want one. Whatever floats your boat.”

 

Derek nods again.

 

“Right. Okay so, bathroom, I’m sure you saw it’s right there. I have an en suite, but I use this one when I don’t feel like going into my room. But mostly it can be yours, I guess. And- oh, crap. I didn’t give you a toothbrush, did I?”

 

Derek shakes his head.

 

“Wow, I’m the worst host ever. If there's ever something super obvious that you need, don't be afraid to let me know. Okay, uh,” he opens the door and steps inside, rummaging around in a drawer under the counter. He pulls out a half-empty package of toothbrushes and holds it up. “Pink, blue, or green?" 

 

“Excuse me, Stiles?”

 

“Your toothbrush,” Stiles says, looking a little sheepish now. “I guess you probably don’t care very much, but what color do you want?”

 

Somehow, that’s what it takes. Stiles isn’t acting. He’s an honest-to-God idiot, but he’s not acting. He really thinks he and Derek can get along, and bond over things like watching movies and the color of their toothbrushes. Sure, he’ll very soon realize that Derek is basically his personal doormat, and just as soon start treating him as such, but maybe Derek can get a day or two of peace before that hits. As long as he can keep up his good behavior till then, Stiles might even be  _pleased_  with him. Wouldn’t that be a first?

 

“And this,” Stiles says, coming to the end of the hall, and of their tour, “is my bedroom. I’m not gonna go into yours, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t come into mine. Unless, you know, I ask you to.”

 

Then again, maybe Stiles isn’t as naïve as he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you _so_ much for your patience, and I hope what's to come is worth the wait. 
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	11. Chapter 11

“You wanna take a shower?” Stiles asks.

 

Derek gives him an odd look.

 

“No offense, but it’s kinda been a few days, hasn’t it? There’s towels under the sink in the bathroom, and you can use my soap for now. I’m gonna go watch TV or something, and you can come down when you’re done and we can hang if you want.”

 

Derek squints at him for another second before nodding brusquely.

 

“Yes, Stiles. Thank you, Stiles.”

 

“No prob.”

 

* * *

 

Taking a shower feels good.

 

Like the rest of his house, Stiles’ shower isn’t overly-fancy or anything, but it does its job and the head is high enough for Derek to stand under comfortably, and that’s good enough for him.

 

If Stiles was going to let him, Derek is surprised he hadn’t offered the shower yesterday before Lydia’s house. Then again, maybe he didn’t notice Derek hadn’t taken one then—werewolves don’t sweat nearly as quickly as humans.

 

Stripping off his nice new clothes reveals the grime underneath. The guards had hosed everyone down before the auction began, but that was a slipshod job done from a distance, and the high-power nozzles probably did a better job of freezing all the wolves than cleaning them. Derek frowns, thinking of the younger ones clinging to their mothers’ legs, whimpering from the cold and pressure. He frowns, too, thinking of what it was like for him the first time, a teenager so used to a life of relative normalcy, suddenly thrust into that. He tries not to focus on it, not allowing himself to think about more than the general idea that it had sucked, bigtime. 

 

Derek allows himself some warm water, because Stiles probably wouldn't say—or do—anything about it, and even if he would, the steam will probably have cleared out of the bathroom before Stiles uses it again.

 

Stiles’ body wash smells good, some green, natural scent called Dark Forest, which gives Derek a strange urge to laugh. He recognizes it as part of Stiles' scent—he always smells earthy, and like ink and some type of medication and a little bit like stress—and he’s not terribly keen on smelling like Stiles, but it doesn’t really matter. Their scents will mix in this house soon enough, anyway.

 

He gets out and wraps one of the old towels from underneath the sink around his waist, glad when he stops to listen and hears that Stiles is still downstairs, just like he said. He heads to his room and towels off. Then, not knowing what to do with it, leaves the towel on a hanger in his closet to dry. He pulls on the navy blue Henley and a pair of the jeans, along with socks and the gray sneakers Stiles had bought. He hasn’t worn this much new, let alone comfortable, clothing in who knows how long.

 

He heads downstairs and enters the living room, standing in the doorway till Stiles acknowledges him.

 

“Hey, come sit,” Stiles says, edging over from where he’s sprawled across the couch onto the right cushion.

 

There’s some old black and white movie onscreen that Stiles had been looking pretty bored with when he came in, and when Derek carefully sits down next to him, he dangles the remote in front of him.

 

“Wanna pick something?” he asks.

 

“No thank you, Stiles.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“Yes, Stiles, unless you want me to. I don’t know what channel any shows are on, but I’m sure I could find one if you want.”

 

“Nah,” Stiles says. "Wanna watch a movie instead?”

 

“Of course, Stiles.”

 

Stiles sighs.

 

* * *

 

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” Stiles says, turning to face Derek. Derek, who’s sitting up straight with his hands laid neatly on his knees, looks at him. 

 

“I’m sorry, I don’t have to do what, Stiles?”

 

 _That_ , Stiles thinks. _Yes, Stiles. No, Stiles. Anything to please you_ _, Stiles._

 

“Be so formal. Ya know, always calling me Stiles and stuff.”

 

“Is there something you’d prefer me to call you?” Derek asks.

 

His voice is so _toneless_. Not annoyed or sarcastic or anything it should be. Just a light, polite voice, devoid of any emotion at all.

 

“No,” Stiles says slowly, trying to figure out how to explain this. “You can call me Stiles, but it’s not like, my _title_. I’m a struggling writer a couple years out of college, I don’t need some formal address. My friends call me dude and man and bro and Stiles all in the same tone, and you can too. And you don’t need to say it all the time either. When I told you I didn’t want you to call me Master, I didn’t mean you should call me Stiles as a replacement. It’s just, you know… it’s my name.”

 

“Okay,” Derek says, and Stiles can see how uncomfortable he looks, speaking to him so casually.

 

“And while we’re at it—and I’m not trying to pick on you, but this is important stuff—you don’t have to be so formal in _any_ of the ways you are.”

 

Stiles sighs, trying to find a polite way to tell Derek that aside from the constant “Stiles”, his 'vocabulary' is mostly comprised of nods and head shakes.

 

“I don’t mind if you’re shy, especially because I’m kind of a chatterbox, but I think we would have a much nicer time living together if we talked a little more.”

 

If Derek really is shy, or if not talking more than necessary is so deeply ingrained in his mind that he can’t bring himself to do it, Stiles wouldn’t mind. It wouldn’t necessarily be pleasant for either of them, but he would let it slide. But no, he doesn’t think that’s the case. When he was choking this morning and Derek came over, asking if he wanted the Heimlich, something was different. It was a quick moment, and Stiles was a little preoccupied at the time, but he’s been thinking about it all day since. Derek had said it in a perfectly normal way. If he were out to a restaurant and one of his friends suddenly started choking, Stiles can see him offering help in the exact same, concerned fashion. So it’s not that Derek doesn’t have a regular side of himself left, he just keeps it hidden from his owners. If that’s what Derek really wants, Stiles will let him be, but he can’t see any conceivable way that Derek could prefer being so servile.

 

Derek is looking at him like he wants to say something, but has no idea what. Stiles knows the feeling.

 

“I’m not saying you have to be my best friend or anything,” Stiles sighs, dragging a hand over his face. “But just- if you want to talk sometime, I’m more than open to it. I’m not gonna… punish you, or whatever.”

 

“Okay,” Derek finally settles on, again. “Thank you.”

 

Stiles thinks maybe, just maybe, he sounds like some part of him means it.

 

* * *

 

“We,” Stiles says, rummaging around the fridge, “ _might_ be out of food.”

 

He looks to Derek like he’s expecting some sort of comment on that, but he doesn’t get one.

 

“Unless you want…” He pauses, pulling out a few things. “A jar with three unidentifiably old pickles in it, two eggs that probably only don’t smell because they’re petrified, or some orange juice. We also have granola bars, but I don’t know if you can ever look at those the same way again after you watched me hack one up earlier. So you know what that means?”

 

“No,” Derek grinds out, practically itching to throw a _Stiles_ , or even better, a _Master_ , on the end. This is truly the epitome of irony—the one time he wants to play the part of a good little slave to make his owner trust him, to like him, even, his owner doesn’t want it. He will, but he doesn’t. And if Derek can’t make Stiles trust him, then he can’t betray his trust, and then he can’t get to Cora. Life is just so _hysterical_ sometimes.

 

“It means a single guy’s favorite thing. Takeout. You want pizza, Chinese, or Thai?”

 

Make Stiles happy. Make Stiles happy. And for some reason, what makes Stiles happy is insolence.

 

They had had the last frozen pizza for lunch today, and Derek never really liked Thai…

 

“I prefer Chinese. What do you prefer?”

 

Well, it’s a start.

 

“Chinese sounds awesome, dude.”

 

He moves to shuffle around in another drawer, pulling out a worn menu, with fancy letters proclaiming Golden Buffet across the top, with at least half the dishes circled in different colors of ink.

 

“One of our favorite places,” Stiles explains. “They’re cheap, but their food is heaven. Especially their chicken chow mein,” he says, moaning almost sinfully.

 

Derek purposefully doesn’t raise an eyebrow. Stiles hands him the menu and nudges his shoulder towards the kitchen table, saying, "Pick something, and I’ll order.”

 

* * *

 

“No.”

 

“No?” Derek asks, and look at him, already a natural.

 

“There’s no way you’re ordering a half pint of white rice and string beans. That’s literally the cheapest thing on the menu.”

 

Derek doesn’t point out that it’s not like Stiles has a million dollars to spare.

 

“It tastes good,” he says simply.

 

“It tastes cheap. And gross. Who even likes string beans? I mean, you can get ‘em if you want, but you’re getting a large, because I’m not gonna end up on the news as the guy who accidentally starved a werewolf to death. No, sirree.”

 

Derek also doesn’t point out that that wouldn’t make the news.

 

“Oh dude,” Stiles laughs. “You totally just pulled a face. You don’t even like string beans, do you?”

 

“They’re okay,” Derek says, shrugging.

 

“Nah, you look more like a meat guy anyway. How ‘bout General Tso’s Chicken? That’s Scott’s favorite.”

 

Derek had passed that by in his reading—it’s fourteen dollars. Not too terrible for a human, but for a slave?

 

“And do you want an eggroll?”

 

“I’m fine, thank you.”

 

“And two eggrolls,” Stiles says loudly, marking it down on the menu. “Awesome.”

 

* * *

 

“So tell me about yourself,” Stiles says around a mouthful of chicken. “Wow, I haven’t said that since my last date,” he adds. “Which was a pathetically long time ago, but more on my sad love life later.”

 

Derek looks like he’s struggling for a second, before he finally says, “I’m thirty.”

 

And oh, doesn’t that make everything even weirder. Some guy who’s older than Stiles is expecting him to boss him around. Not that it’s that huge a difference, but still. Weird.

 

“I’m twenty-five,” Stiles offers in return.

 

The conversation quickly stunts, the only sound for the next few minutes being their chewing.

 

“Are you born or bitten?” Stiles finally asks. “Unless it’s, like, personal.”

 

Technically, he could just look it up in Derek’s papers if he really wanted. Speaking of, he still needs to sort through all of those. Yay.

 

“Born,” Derek says, after a moment.

 

“Oh.”

 

More silence.

 

“You can ask me stuff too, if you want,” Stiles says. “I’m not that interesting, but...”

 

“How long have you been writing for?” Derek asks, and it’s clearly just polite small talk, but it’s also progress.

 

“Since I was a senior in high school. I never really tried it before, but it turned out I like it. I’ve got ADHD, so it’s a little hard to focus sometimes, but I’ve got my Adderall, and it really doesn’t hold me back. I almost got something published last year, a mystery, but they decided last-minute that it was a little too obvious. Suggested I try my hand at something else, and I chose fantasy. Research has always been my thing, I like to know everything about anything, so looking up mythical creatures is pretty cool.”

 

“That’s interesting,” Derek says.

 

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. “Anything else you wanna know? I’m pretty much an open book. You can ask me whatever, whenever.”

 

Derek picks at his rice, not lifting his head from his plate when he asks, “Do a lot of your friends own werewolves?”

 

“Nope, Lydia and Jackson are the only ones. Jackson grew up with Danny at his parents’ house, and he took him with him when he moved out. They took Ethan in to keep Danny company while they’re at work, since he can’t really go out and whatever.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Not a lotta people in Beacon Hills own them,” Stiles adds. “I don’t really think it’s that common that the auctions even stop here.”

 

“Oh,” Derek says again.

 

Stiles can’t tell if that’s disappointment or relief.

 

“We can hang out with Lydia anytime you want though. You know, if you want some people to talk to.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

"You're also the uh- first, you know... werewolf... I've had live with me."

 

"Do you like it so far?" Derek asks nonchalantly, but Stiles is pretty sure there's a bit of a challenge in the words. 

 

Is he supposed to say yes, so as not to offend him? Or no, because Derek certainly doesn't seem to be having a good time?

 

"It's definitely interesting," Stiles says finally. 

 

Derek nods.

 

"It is." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry there was such a long wait again; this is kind of the chapter I've been dreading, and even though I finished it a while ago, it took some serious editing to get it somewhere I was okay with. The next chapter is already almost done, so the next wait shouldn't be very long. 
> 
> That said, **important warning:** there is (non-explicit) discussion of rape/noncon, along with a panic attack, in this chapter, so if this might in any way be triggering for you, please read the end notes for a more detailed explanation of what to expect.

The next three days are more of the same.

 

They wake up. One of them makes breakfast. They watch TV together when Stiles wants to, because Derek still isn’t comfortable enough to try turning it on by himself. One of them makes lunch. Derek cleans his own plate, and nothing else. Stiles writes. Derek tries to make plans for him and Cora without getting his hopes up. He fails, on both parts. Stiles makes dinner. Derek does his best not to seem too formal. He fails at that, too. Stiles shows the same, maddening patience. Stiles goes to bed. Derek waits by the phone for ten minutes. Derek goes to bed.

 

It’s the closest Derek has come to a normal life in years, but every second is agony. No matter what Stiles says, no matter what he does, Derek knows that eventually something’s gotta give. And on the fourth day? It does.

 

* * *

 

“I’ve got a surprise for you tonight,” Stiles tells him over dinner. 

 

“Oh?” Derek asks, carefully keeping his voice level. Surprises are never, ever good. Surprise, I read your papers and determined you’re a blue-eyed monster! Surprise, it turns out you have behavioral issues and I’m going to beat them out of you! Surprise, we’re having company and you have to walk around on your hands and knees all day to show them how powerful we are! Surprise!

 

“Yep. I think we could really have a good time, and maybe it’ll help calm you down a little.”

 

It doesn’t have to mean anything. It doesn’t.

 

“Thank you, I’m glad.”

 

“If you go wait in my room after we finish up, I’ll come up in a few and we can get started,” Stiles tells him.

 

“Okay,” Derek grits out. “I look forward to it.”

 

“I mean,” Stiles says, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I can’t really guarantee that you’re gonna have a great time, so don’t get your hopes too high or anything. But I think we could definitely have some fun.”

 

Suddenly, Derek isn’t at all hungry anymore.

 

“Yes, Stiles,” he says automatically.

 

Stiles seems too busy smiling to even notice.

 

* * *

 

As Stiles approaches the door, box in hand, he notices there’s hardly any light coming from the crack underneath. He finds it odd that Derek had closed Stiles’ door at all, and he flicks the light switch on when he steps into the room.

 

Derek is kneeling on the floor at the foot of Stiles’ bed, his shirtless back perfectly erect and hands clasped behind himself. His eyes are half-closed and his head is ducked, his face completely passive.

 

“…Derek?” Stiles says tentatively, setting his box on the ground.

 

He feels like he’s just walked in on some strange, moonlight, werewolf ritual. Maybe he has.

 

“Yes, Stiles,” Derek answers smoothly, not looking over at him.

 

“Why’re you… y’know… What are you doing on the floor?”

 

“Would you prefer me on the bed, Stiles?”

 

“Um… you can sit wherever you want, I guess?”

 

“Yes, Stiles.”

 

“Um, Derek?”

 

“Yes, Stiles?”

 

“You’re kind of not wearing a shirt.”

 

“I didn’t know if I should strip, Stiles,” Derek replies evenly. “Or if you wanted to do it.”

 

“Do _what?_ ”

 

“Strip me, Stiles.”

 

Stiles swallows hard, and he’s sure Derek can hear the way his heartrate just tripled.

 

“What?” he asks again, voice coming out hoarse.

 

“I didn’t know,” Derek repeats, and Stiles would stop him, stop him from saying the awful, horrible, terrible words again if he could just make himself talk past the lump in his throat, “if you wanted to strip me yourself, or if you wanted me to do it, Stiles. My shirt is on the dresser, if you want me to wear it for now.”

 

“I don’t-” Stiles says, taking a hasty step backwards. “You’re not- you- you’re talking about sex? Holy shit, you are, aren’t you?”

 

Derek finally tips his head up, just slightly, to look at him.

 

His expression looks so calm, so cool and collected, but the stiffness of both his body and words say otherwise.

 

“Yes, Stiles.”

 

“No,” Stiles says, dragging both hands through his hair, over and over and over as he gets more frantic. “No, no, what the fuck, no- Derek, what the _fuck_ \- what-”

 

“Is everything okay, Stiles?”

 

“ _No_ ,” he snaps.

 

“I’m sorry, Stiles. I didn’t mean to interrupt you, Stiles.”

 

“Stop it,” Stiles says, looking at him with wide, horrified eyes.

 

“Stop what, Stiles?”

 

“That,” he says. “That, stop it, _stop_ it. Get up. Now, Derek, get up, I’m not- fucking _shit_ , I’m not- I’m- You didn’t think this is what I meant, did you? That I wanted to make you have sex? That’s not- how- how could you think I meant that?”

 

* * *

 

“How else was I supposed to take it?” Derek asks, voice a little tight now.

 

Stiles seems genuinely upset, on the verge of a panic attack, almost, and Derek wants to claw his stupid face off.

 

“Dude, I- I bought some alcohol and solo cups, I thought we could play beer pong or something, and my stereo is up here so we could listen to music. How- how did you get _that_ from _that_?”

 

“Are you serious?” Derek says angrily, and he’s vaguely aware that he’s stood up and shifted to a more threatening stance, shoulders taut and hands curled into fists at his sides, but he’s so _beyond_ done with all this bullshit. He’s not playing around anymore. If Stiles sends him back? Fine. He’ll get to Cora another way. Hell, maybe he’ll even end up in a lot with her, but he can’t take the constant, foreboding feeling of not knowing. “How the fuck else was I supposed to take it?”

 

“I just said I wanted to do something fun,” Stiles says, voice shaking, and Derek wants to yell at him to knock it off.

 

“No,” Derek spits. “No, _Master_. You said you had a surprise for me. You said maybe you could help me calm down. You said I should go to your _bedroom_ and wait for you. You said that there’s no guarantee _I_ would have a good time, but that it would be fun. Do you know how many times I’ve heard that? How many fucking variations of those same words?”

 

“Derek, I wouldn’t- I wouldn’t _rape_ you. Oh my god, you can’t think I would-”

 

“No?” Derek practically roars. “I can’t? Because I think your kind has given me the fucking right to, _Master_. I’m supposed to believe that you’re just a sweet, innocent little twenty-something who has nothing on his mind besides writing? That’s all?”

 

“That’s all,” Stiles says, swallowing hard. “I swear, that’s all, it is, I-”

 

“What the fuck am I here for, then?” Derek demands, taking a step closer, then another and another till he’s only a foot or so from Stiles. Stiles is either too smart or too scared to run. At this point, Derek doesn’t really care which. “Hmm? Just to be your fucking little housepet? Is that it? You get to feed me and give me water and, oh, wow, since I was a good boy you even let me sit on your couch! Great! Fucking fantastic, _Master!_ But no, they have fucking _cats_ for that, so that’s not what you want. And if you don’t want me to cook, or clean, or do your fucking bidding, and if you can’t keep your damn fridge stocked but can dole out fifteen-hundred for me, then you fucking _want_ something.”

 

Stiles is shaking his head vigorously, and it would almost be comical if Derek weren’t so completely enraged. He wants to calm down, can’t imagine the trouble he’s going to get in for this, but he’s sick of being the one always pushed around, and now he’s got this stupid, naïve, _breakable_ human in front of him, and he’s not quite finished.

 

“ _No?_ No, Master. No, of course not. But you have to want _something_. Everyone wants something. I know you don’t want me to rip your fucking throat out, right? So there’s something you want. Now why don’t you just tell me the other fucking thing you’re looking for, and maybe I’ll back the fuck off, _Master_.”

 

Stiles is trembling violently, but Derek can’t bring himself to care right now. If Stiles thinks he’s a monster? Well, how many monsters has _Derek_ had to deal with?

 

“Why don’t you fucking _do_ something?” Derek yells, and he hardly notices his fangs dropping and claws popping out. Somehow, the fact that Stiles isn’t yelling back is just pissing him off even more. “Are you just that stupid? Is that it? I’ve got a shock collar around my neck and you’ve got the fucking remote on your keychain, _Master_ , so why don’t you knock me down a fucking peg?”

 

It’s a flat out challenge, and some tiny voice in the back of his mind is screaming at him to shut up, that Stiles is going to do it and Derek’s going to seriously fucking regret ever testing him.

 

Instead, Stiles’ eyes widen impossibly further.

 

“I don’t-” he stammers. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I don’t, I swear, please, I’m sorry, I’m _so_ sorry, I-”

 

And just like that, something in Derek snaps. He reels his fist back, and Stiles just keeps standing there, shutting his eyes and cringing. Derek’s fist connects with the doorframe level with Stiles' head, knocking out a small chunk of the wall. He realizes for the first time that _he’s_ shaking, too, and that the thick scent of fear and desperation clouding the air is coming just as much from his as it is from Stiles.

 

“Get out, Stiles,” he snarls, breathing hard.

 

Stiles opens his eyes again, first flitting to the dent that’s swirling with white powder, then to Derek’s eyes, just staring for a long moment, and Derek stares back. Then, as if snapping back to life, Stiles quite literally flees the room, running down the hall and slamming the door to Derek’s room behind him. Derek expects the first sound to be him pulling out a cellphone, calling 911 or the auctioneers or the facility or _something_ , but instead Stiles just smashes his back into the door, slides down it, and retches. 

 

It lasts a minute, maybe more, Stiles just sitting there, heaving and gasping violently. That leads directly into a panic attack, and Stiles sobs, breath hitching horribly, heartbeat tripping over itself. Derek thinks distantly that that was probably the scariest moment of Stiles’ entire life. And he caused it.

 

Derek stands in the doorway, just listening to Stiles ride it out. It’s a long, long time before he even begins to calm down. Derek stops listening then, not wanting to hear the phone call to the police, the dispatcher calmly assuring Stiles that beasts are known to act out sometimes, but that he shouldn’t worry, should just turn the shock collar to the highest setting and subdue Derek, and wait for the authorities to come.

 

 _Then he’ll be dealt with accordingly_ , a cool, taunting voice echoes in his head. _We'll torture him into submission, don’t you worry._

 

Derek finally turns away from the hall and notices the full-length mirror on Stiles’ wall, and takes a moment to look himself over. His fangs are still crowding his mouth and his claws are out, and his eyes are glowing bright blue. He wonders how long they’d been doing that for; Stiles will probably have an entire SWAT team sent to take care of him. He catches sight of the triskele tattoo on his back, too, and suddenly feels very exposed again, despite being all alone now. He’d rather not be bare-chested when they come to take him away, and he finally moves from his spot, grabbing his shirt off the dresser and pulling it on. He steps back in front of the mirror, taking in how completely feral he looks, chest still heaving a little. 

 

He numbly walks to the bed, sitting down on the edge. There’s no point trying to get comfortable, now. He absently sets his elbows on his knees, and turns his hands palms-up when he catches sight of blood. There are four deep holes in each, from where he’d kept them fisted at his sides, and he stares blankly as they heal over. He concentrates a little harder, purposely slowing his healing, feeling the sting of each cut.

 

As he stares at his bloody hands, and the bruises on his right knuckles, he thinks of his mother’s words, repeated a thousand times when he was a child.

 

_We’re werewolves, Derek, but we’re not monsters._

 

Tell that to Stiles Stilinski.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings (spoilers ahead, of course): Derek completely misinterprets something Stiles says, and thinks Stiles plans to rape him. Consequently, he kneels at Stiles' bed, and Stiles freaks out, horrified that Derek's come to expect something like that, and that he thinks Stiles would do it. Derek becomes furious and yells at Stiles about his intentions, sending Stiles into a panic attack, and leaving Derek feeling guilty. This will not be resolved until next chapter; if this sounds triggering and you want to wait until they talk it over to read it, or skip it, that's perfectly understandable. 
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway... this was a difficult chapter to write, so I'd really love to hear what you thought. Also, if there's something specific you want to see next chapter as a result of this, let me know, and I'll see about potentially including it.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** non-explicit (and certainly less intense than last chapter) mentions of past rape.

When Derek wakes, there are a few blissful seconds where his mind is a blur. He’s not a slave. He’s not a werewolf.  He’s not in trouble. He has no idea who Stiles Stilinski is. He just _is_. He’s lying in a warm bed, just existing.

 

He blinks at the alarm clock a few times, reads that it’s 12:37 PM, and has everything come crashing down on him in a matter of seconds.

 

He has no idea what’s going on. He’s still in Stiles’ bed like he was last night, and somehow, for some reason, he hasn’t been dragged back to the facility yet. What does that mean? Are they waiting for him right outside the door? But no, the only heartbeat in the entire house is Stiles’, coming from the kitchen. Had he been too scared to call the auctioneers? Is he idiotic enough to think that something like this doesn’t void the month-long no returns policy? Is he waiting for Derek to wake up before he makes the call? Did he do some reading and decide he can discipline Derek himself? He _knew_ he shouldn’t have mentioned the shock collar.

 

He wonders how long Stiles would allow him to just lay here. A few more minutes? Hours? What’s he even doing down there?

 

He doesn’t wait to find out, though, because restlessness and curiosity force him to drag himself out of bed. He notices, when he catches sight of himself in the mirror again, that he’s still wearing yesterday’s clothes. Well, that’s a place to start. He’d like a shower, but if Stiles already made the call and they’re on their way, Derek would rather not be dragged out naked. He settles on walking back to his own room to change his clothes. As soon as he gets there, he wishes he hadn’t.

 

Opening the door, he’s bombarded with an incredible variety of scents, from fear to anger to guilt to sadness to resolve. There are more natural scents, too, like the saltiness of tears and the bitterness of vomit. He notices, as he puts on his pants, how neat everything looks. Either the bed hadn’t been slept in, or Stiles had remade it. Either option is strange and foreboding.

 

He pulls on a pair of new socks and ties his shoes. He knows it’s technically useless, because when Stiles sends him back, all his belongings will be returned to his owner. Still, it’s a very real possibility that this is the last time he’ll get to wear clothes as comfortable as these, and so he gets dressed anyway. When he grabs a shirt out of the closet, he catches sight of the leather jacket Stiles had gone out of his way to buy him, and his stomach churns unpleasantly. He doesn’t dawdle when he’s done dressing—if he does, he’ll never get downstairs. He goes to the bathroom, brushes his teeth like it’s any old day, and heads for the stairs. Before he reaches them, though, something at the end of the hall catches his eye. Sitting on the floor outside Stiles’ room is a cardboard box, and he crouches down to open it. It’s holding two six-packs of beer, a sleeve of red cups, and some ping pong balls. He picks up one of the balls and rolls it around between his fingers. He sighs, dropping it and watching it bump around the box till it knocks into the corners and stops, then stands back up and heads for the stairs. Fucking incredible.

 

He stops on the bottom landing, and from his angle, he’s just able to see Stiles sitting in the kitchen from where the doorway adjoins it to the living room. His elbows are propped up on the table, and Derek can smell fresh coffee.

 

He doesn’t know what to do. He could storm in, keep up last night’s anger and do whatever the hell he wants, because it’s not like he could make things much worse for himself at this point. He could carefully approach, gracefully bring himself to his knees at Stiles’ chair, bare his neck, and beg for forgiveness. He could do anything in between those options.

 

He could stand there all day going over his choices, too, but he forces himself into action. He’ll figure it out when he gets there, he supposes.

 

He walks through the living room and into the kitchen, stopping abruptly when he reaches the doorway. Stiles is indeed sitting at the table, nursing a still-steaming cup of coffee, but across from him, at the chair where Derek normally sits, is a second mug.

 

Derek tilts his head to listen again. They’re still alone.

 

“You want to sit?” Stiles asks, not turning around.

 

His voice is quiet and level, and that’s almost more worrisome than if he sounded angry.

 

Derek stands there for another moment before he starts to feel, of all things, embarrassed.

 

He enters the kitchen, walking briskly to the seat opposite Stiles and sitting down.

 

He looks down at the coffee, then back to Stiles.

 

“It’s for you. Black, right?”

 

Derek looks back at his mug, watching as the steam spirals out of it, dissipating into the air above.

 

“I didn’t do anything to it,” Stiles adds, “if that’s what you were thinking. I guess you have no reason to believe that, but-”

 

Derek picks up the cup and takes a swig, ignoring the way it scalds his tongue as he watches Stiles over the rim.

 

He doesn’t drop his eyes as he sets the cup back down, just keeps looking at Stiles, trying to figure out what they’re doing here.

 

“We have some things to talk about,” Stiles says finally.

 

Understatement.

 

Neither of them says anything for a long while.

 

Stiles is the first one to speak up.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

Derek raises an eyebrow a fraction.

 

“I didn’t mean to scare you like that,” Stiles says. He sounds solemn, and amazingly, sincere. “I should’ve considered how everything I said might sound to you, and even if I didn’t, I shouldn’t have freaked out like that. I had no right to act upset at you for not understanding what I meant. I should’ve apologized right off the bat, if anything. I was just really freaked out, myself, that you thought I would want to take advantage of you. I mean, I actually kinda thought we were making progress.” He pauses for a moment to bite his lip, as if contemplating where he went wrong. “I practically yelled at you even though you had… just, literally _every_ right to be pissed at me, and confused, and whatever. So yeah, Derek. I’m sorry.”

 

Derek furrows his brow as Stiles talks, trying to catch some blip in his heartbeat, but there is none.

 

“You don’t have to say, ‘it’s okay’,” Stiles continues, pausing to take a sip of coffee. “I know it’s not, and that I can’t really make up for it. I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for last night, and for not even beginning to understand what you went through.”

 

Derek surprises Stiles, and even himself, when the first thing he says is, “What are you going to do?”

 

It comes out casually, to his relief, not afraid or even hesitant.

 

“I don’t know,” Stiles says, setting down his mug and wrapping both hands around it. “I’m going to do whatever you want to do.”

 

Derek has no idea what that’s supposed to mean.

 

“Did you call the police?”

 

He speaks in his normal voice, seeing no point in feigning servility anymore.

 

“Does it look like I called the police?” Stiles frowns, then says, “Sorry, not trying to be-”

 

“It doesn’t,” Derek says, cutting him off. Listening to an owner apologize is just too weird, and too good to be true. Thing is, just about everything about Stiles seems too good to be true, and while that usually means it is, Stiles tends to surprise him. “But why not?”

 

Stiles studies him for a moment.

 

“I don’t know,” he sighs. “Honestly? You scared the fuck out of me last night. But I scared the fuck out of you first, so I guess it was only fair.”  

 

“You thought I was going to attack you,” Derek points out.

 

_Or kill you._

 

“You thought I was going to rape you,” Stiles says carefully.

 

“I would’ve healed. You wouldn’t have.”

 

He doesn’t know why he’s provoking Stiles like this. If he wants to let Derek off the hook, Derek ought to be more than happy to let him. But no. He’s going to get to the bottom of all of Stiles’ weirdness right now.

 

“Sometimes healing mentally is harder than healing physically,” Stiles says. Derek honestly could’ve never pictured the twenty-something, foot-perpetually-wedged-in-his-mouth goofball, sounding so sage. “I don’t know what kind of people you old owners were, or how the hell they’re not in jail, but you have to know that that’s _not_ okay.”

 

“I’m a werewolf,” Derek says simply. Of course, he agrees a million percent that’s it’s as fucking far from okay as something can get, but he’s testing the waters here, trying to get a good read on Stiles. “That’s just what it’s like.”

 

“You’re still a person.”

 

“Not a citizen.”

 

“But a _person_ ,” Stiles insists. “Who cares if you’re a citizen? You deserve to be treated like a human being.”

 

“ _No one_ cares if I’m a citizen.; they care that I’m _not_. If I’m not, you can do whatever you want to me. This?” he says, brushing his fingers against the collar around his neck. “Completely legal. Completely encouraged. You couldn’t even get it removed.”

 

“You know, I really didn’t know what that was for,” Stiles says, ducking his head. “I took the controller off my keys. I didn’t want to destroy it in case the facility wants it back, but I left it in your room.”

 

In case the the facility wants it back. Fuck. _Fuck_. Derek really hadn’t allowed himself to get his hopes up, but just… this all seemed like such a gesture of goodwill. Not calling the police, making him coffee, having a mature, adult conversation…

 

“What’s wrong?” Stiles asks, frowning.

 

“Nothing,” Derek says, draining the last of his coffee.

 

“Dude, c’mon, your whole face just fell.” _Did it really?_ “What happened?”

 

“Just wondering when you’re sending me back,” Derek says nonchalantly, but there’s a hint of underlying venom in his voice.

 

He really shouldn’t be too angry, because honestly, this is no one’s fault but his and his past owners’. And yet… Stiles’ house is the best deal he’s had in a long time, and he completely fucking blew it.

 

“I’d really like to punch whoever made you do that,” Stiles mutters, almost to himself.

 

Derek cocks an eyebrow.

 

“It’s not your fault,” Stiles adds, frowning. “And I mean, you’re completely entitled to do it. But just, you assume the absolute worst in every situation.”

 

Derek just waits for him to continue, not daring for a second to get his hopes up.

 

“I don’t want to send you back for this, Derek.”

 

_You don’t want to, but…_

 

“I’m not _going_ to send you back for this,” he continues. “But-” _ah, there’s the ‘but’_ “-we need to have a serious talk about you living here.”

 

So maybe it’s an ‘if you put another toe out of line you’ll regret it’ situation? That would actually be pretty incredible.

 

Rather than the lecture on rules and boundaries that Derek was expecting, though, Stiles says, “I don’t have the best financial situation.”

 

Derek blinks in surprise.

 

“I mean, buying you in the first place was a fucking gigantic expense for me. Any accountant would’ve peed his pants, man, because I really don’t have that kind of cash to spare. Not just the fifteen hundred, either, but living expenses and food and shit. It was a _huge_ cost, and definitely not the smartest move.”

 

Okay. Okay, hold on- Stiles is considering keeping him, but what’s holding him back is _money_? Not Derek roaring in his face, but the cost of two people showering?

 

“So, I mean, it’s kind of up to fate, and Lydia and Jackson, and you, basically,” Stiles goes on. “I sent out the first few chapters of my book to a few publishers the other day—good ones, too, because Lydia is a fucking queen with friends in high places—and if someone likes it, I could eventually start making some real money. I also sent out a few short stories, and a publisher _did_ like them, so I should be negotiating a price with her pretty soon. So if everything works out, maybe we can make this work for us. If not… um, well, this is the part that’s up to you. It’s not exactly a secret that Lyds and Jackson are way better off than me, and they really love Danny, and they’re warming up to Ethan fast. So, um… well, if I can’t get the money, I was thinking maybe I could convince them to take you in.” Derek’s eyes widen, and Stiles rushes to continue. “I mean, if you don’t wanna live with them, that’s cool. I get it. And if you don’t wanna live with me, I get that too. You can go back to the auction if you really hate it here. But I mean, I’m not going to hold last night against you, and Danny and Ethan are great guys, and I bet they’d be really open to you living with them. And I mean, if I can get the money, that’d be even better, because obviously it’d be a huge fucking favor to ask Lydia, but I don’t know. But uh, yeah. Basically, if you don’t want to go back to the auctions, I’ll do whatever I can to keep you, and if you do, that’s your choice.”

 

Derek stares at him for a long, long time.

 

“You have time to think it over,” Stiles adds sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “But I figured I’d let you know, and maybe you’d like one of those options. Maybe. I don’t know.”

 

“I don’t get it,” Derek says finally.

 

It’s… it’s amazing. With anyone else, Derek would immediately assume they were lying, but after everything he’s gone through with Stiles, he knows it’s too elaborate to be a plot. The same voice from his first day here reminds him, _there must be good people somewhere!_

Derek doesn’t hush it this time.

 

“Uh… which part?”

 

“All of it. Any of it." He tightens his grip on his mug. "You.”

 

“I mean,” Stiles says, looking confused, “I thought maybe you’d want to stay with us. Just, cause, y’know… the way you describe things always sounds so awful. And it wouldn’t be like that here.”

 

“You said you wanted to keep the shock collar controls in case the facility wanted them back.”

 

Best to begin at the beginning, and work his way through his enormous list of _what the hell?_ s.

 

“God, crap, no, that’s not how I meant it. I meant I’m going to drive down there and demand they take the stupid fucking collar off. My dad’s been the sheriff for thirty years, and frankly, I’m not afraid to namedrop. Sure, maybe the collars are legal, but I’m sure he could find plenty of other violations the place might be hiding.”

 

“Oh,” Derek says, and for the first time since he’s met Stiles, he allows some sincerity to come with the words, “...thank you.”

 

Stiles waves a hand at him, like it’s not a big deal at all that the collar he’s been wearing for half his life finally has a real chance of coming off.

 

“What else?” Stiles asks. “We need to clear the air, and it’s pretty fucking murky.”

 

“Why’d you buy me in the first place?”

 

That, _that_ , is the golden question. Maybe if he can get an answer to that, some of the rest of this will finally slot into place.

 

“It’s going to sound pretty stupid,” Stiles warns. “But I promise it’s the truth. You can listen to my heartbeat or whatever, if you want.”

 

Like Derek hasn’t already been. Oh, god, Stiles.

 

Derek nods.

 

“Okay, so… Lydia wanted to buy a werewolf to keep Danny company, because she and Jackson work a lot, and they thought it wasn’t really fair to leave him sitting alone in the house all the time. I went out to dinner with her one night, and on the way home, she asked if we could stop at the slave auction. And when Lydia asks you to do something, she’s really kind of telling you. So, um, personally, I always thought slavery was screwed up, and I was against it, but I never gave it any real thought, you know? It’s been around since long before I was born, and it’s just kind of something that _is_. So, yeah, I argued with her a little, but didn’t have much of a leg to stand on, and we ended up going. We get there, we go inside, and wait around for a Were that Lydia likes. Apparently she was planning this for a while, because she had read up on all the Weres in the lot, personality-wise and everything, and she already knew that the one who would be best with Danny came at the end.

 

“So, right, anyway, we’re sitting there, and they bring you on stage. And you just looked so… I don’t know. Like, resigned? But also kind of worried. And really pissed off. And I mean, I know it doesn’t make a lot of sense, because mostly everyone there looked like that, but then you did this thing… After giving the crowd an initial look at their face, everyone else kept their head bowed like they’re supposed to. But you actually looked into the crowd, all sneakily, and this big dude forced your head back down, and it just kinda threw me off. I mean, don’t kill me for saying so, because you’re fucking tougher than anyone I’ve ever met, but… it just made you seem vulnerable. And it’s crazy, y’know? This big, tough, angry-looking werewolf casts a furtive glance at the crowd, and suddenly I’m like- and fuck, don’t think I’m crazy for saying this either, but I felt like I needed to protect you. And I know that doesn’t even make sense, because there were women at that auction, and teenagers, and people even more vulnerable than you, but I mean, I guess it wasn’t _you_ in particular. It was just… that vulnerability. Like, you were genuinely afraid to see who was bidding on you, but you were also going to give them hell.

 

“Anyway, there was this woman who was matching everyone’s bids on you, and I didn’t even know about the… well, you know, the rape thing, but she just seemed so skeevy. Like why do you need this particular wolf so badly, right? And I mean, this isn’t an excuse, it’s just a fact, but I told you the other day that I have ADHD, and sometimes my brain-to-mouth filter kinda _nopes_ out on me, and before I really considered consequences or anything, I ended up placing a bid on you. Higher than I probably even needed to, but I just… I didn’t want that woman, or anyone, really, to take you home, when you looked so worried like that. I don’t know. It sounds stupid, explaining it…”

 

Derek drags a hand over his stubble, pulling at his bottom lip when he reaches it, trying hard to think of a response.

 

Somehow, what comes out, is, “God, I thought you were fucking crazy.”

 

Stiles winces.

 

“Yeah, I know, I’m sorry. It must’ve looked pretty bad, looking back on it, to overbid like that. And then when you got here, and I had like, no money, you must’ve thought I had some seriously fucked up intentions.”

 

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” Derek asks.

 

“Besides the fact that Lydia told me it’d be better not to? Would you have believed me?”

 

Derek smiles wryly.

 

“Not a chance in hell.”

 

Stiles returns the smile, looking equally pained.

 

“Exactly. But you believe me now?”

 

Derek looks him over appraisingly, from the nervous way his fingers have been drumming on the table since he began the story, to the bead of blood on his lip from where he bit it too hard when Derek questioned him, to the look of sincerity in his eyes.

 

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “I believe you.”

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles can literally feel the tension bleed out of him.

 

He slumps forward a little, resting his head in his hands for a second.

 

“Thank fuck,” he murmurs, and Derek makes a small noise that might actually be a laugh.

 

“No, seriously,” Stiles says, shifting so his right hand in on his cheek, holding him up. “That’s the best news I’ve had in forever.”

 

Derek opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but shuts it again.

 

“C’mon though,” Stiles says, since they’re kind of on a roll. “What else don’t you get? Or want to talk about? Or like, whatever.”

 

Derek looks at him contemplatively for a moment, before he says, in all seriousness, “Why do you care so much?”

 

“What?”

 

“About me. Or what happens to me, or anything. Why would you possibly care so much?”

 

“I-” Stiles starts, then stops. Frowns. “Basic human decency, Derek.”

 

“Basic human decency was you being nice to me in the first place. This- the whole, ‘I won’t send you back to the auctions if I can help it’ thing, is…” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense.”

 

“I don’t know either,” Stiles says. “I mean, we still have to have a talk about… _that_ whole event last night, but that’s not really the important part right now. I just- I don’t know if you even hear yourself sometimes, Derek. The whole, ‘Yes, Stiles. No, Stiles,’ thing is freaky enough by itself. But like, the things you _say_ sometimes? When I asked your name and you gave a list of the most demeaning things I’ve ever heard? Or when you got on your knees and asked how I wanted to punish you? I mean, that’s _terrifying_. I brought out a metal cutter, when there were literally chains in the room, and your first assumption was that I was going to _hurt you_ with it. And you made dinner for me and not yourself, even though you hadn’t eaten in two days, and when I told you to sit down you sat on the floor, and- and shit, Derek, that was only the first night! How could anyone send you back to that? How could anyone have made you _expect_ that?”

 

Derek stares at him, his lips pressed thin.

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“Well, me neither,” Stiles says. “The fact that anything anyone’s done to you is legal, just… it blows my mind. I mean, not to be crude, but it’s illegal to abuse animals like that, and you’re a _human_. You guys are actually better than humans. Like, faster and stronger and bigger and _better_ , so it wouldn’t be too surprising if you were smarter, too. So it doesn’t even make sense, that they can do this to you. Or that they would.”

 

“It makes perfect sense,” Derek says dryly. “Man discovered a creature that was better than itself, and realized they faced two choices. Conquer, or be conquered. They were too stupid to see the third choice of leave us the fuck alone, because we were normal functioning members of society for hundreds of years, and could easily continue to be.” He shrugs. “They went with the first option.”

 

“You know, there’s something _I_ don’t get,” Stiles says. Derek nods, as if to say, _go on_. “You always say stuff like that so casually. I know it pisses you off, but you act so, like, accepting. And like, obviously you’re not _really_ accepting of any of it, and you shouldn’t have to be. And I mean, I know you were probably always forced to act like it doesn’t affect you, but you’re allowed to be pissed about it, here. You know you can voice that now, right?"

 

"I guess so." 

 

"Okay," Stiles says, nodding. "I hope so. And um, if you don't mind me asking... were you always a slave?”

 

Derek frowns, and Stiles is about to tell him he doesn’t actually have to answer that if he doesn’t want, when Derek says, “No. Not always.”

 

“But for a long time?” Stiles probes, even if it's not the best idea.

 

“A long time,” Derek agrees.

 

He doesn’t elaborate, and Stiles doesn’t push it.

 

“Alright. Well, I just wanted to say you can be mad, if you want. I’m never going to get mad at you for expressing an opinion, especially one I agree with this much.”

 

“Thanks, but I prefer to bottle as much anger as possible and then blow up at some innocent person,” Derek deadpans.

 

Was that a _joke?_ Did Derek just seriously make a joke?

 

Stiles gives a tentative laugh, and one corner of Derek’s lip curls, looking reluctantly amused.

 

“We should probably talk about that, huh?” Stiles says, making Derek’s hesitant smile go flat at record speed.

 

“Yeah," he agrees, still frowning. 

 

“Okay,” Stiles says, suddenly at a huge loss for where to start. Last night he’d gone over a million things he wanted to say as he tried desperately to get some sleep, from angry rants to sniveling apologies. Those were all the wild thoughts of an upset person, though, and seem completely irrational in the light of day. “Listen,” he settles on. “I told you on that first night that you’re not a little kid, and I’m not going to treat you like one. I’m not going to punish you, or lecture you, or whatever. Just- you can’t do that anymore, okay? I know last night was obviously full of extenuating circumstances, but like, from now on I kinda need you to avoid shifting on me. I mean, I totally appreciate you punching the wall instead of my face, but ya know, the claws and fangs and-” maybe the blue eyes ought to be a conversation for another day, “-everything are kind of terrifying. And like, I’m not saying you can’t ever shift, and if you like to chill with your claws out while you watch TV, that’s your choice. But, y'know, threatening me with them isn’t really cool. I mean, I completely get why you did it last night, because I probably would’ve done it too, and you had the right to be pissed as hell and freaking out, but like, now that we’re understanding each other, I kinda need you to try not to do that, even when you get mad.”

 

“That’s it?” Derek asks, looking at him uncertainly.

 

“Um… yeah. I think so. I’m sure you have stuff you wanna say, right? Have at it,” he says, spreading his hands. “I really fucked up, so…”

 

Stiles doesn’t really know what he’s expecting Derek to say. While he himself is probably the one who deserves an angry lecture, and although Derek is acting more normal than he ever has right now, he doubts he’s going to get one. What he’s expecting even less than that, though, is what Derek actually says.

 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have exploded at you like that.”

 

“What?” Stiles asks, gaping. It’s probably kind of rude, and not a terribly profound answer, but this is the last thing he was expecting. 

 

Derek sighs, and makes a face like he’s steeling himself.

 

“That was a shitty thing to do, and I’m sorry.”

 

“You don’t have to apologize,” Stiles says quickly. “Like, at all. I have, like, the poorest word choice on the planet, and apparently I’m incredibly naïve, and- it wasn’t your fault.”

 

“Can you just-” Derek huffs. Something that might actually be guilt flickers in his eyes. “Listen. I was freaked out, and then I was pissed, and you were easy to take it out on. That wasn’t just anger at you, it was at everyone who’s ever- _whatever_. I had no right to take all that out on you, but you were there, and you were vulnerable, and I was halfway between feeling powerful because I could do whatever I wanted without you punishing me, and really wanting to get a rise out of you, because then you would finally show your true colors. But you didn’t have true colors. I mean- these are them. You’re a-” he practically grits his teeth as he says it, “-a nice person, and I was being a dick.”

 

Stiles is trying insanely hard to think of a decent response, because that’s probably the most words he’s even heard Derek say consecutively, excluding the yelling last night, but Derek saves him by continuing.

 

“There are things that might set me off. Words and phrases and movements, and I’m never going to be able to give you a full list or something, because I probably don’t even know half of them. So if that’s a deal breaker for you-”

 

“It’s not,” Stiles interrupts. “It’s definitely not. I just- I need you to remember that I don’t want to hurt you, ever. Okay? If I trigger bad memories for you, you just have to tell me, so I can avoid doing whatever I did. And if you wolf out, that’s- I mean, it sucks, but as long as you don’t rip my throat out, we’re cool.”

 

The ghost of a smirk flits across Derek’s face.

 

“I’ll try not to.”

 

They’re both silent for a long time, then, just sitting at the table.

 

Finally, Stiles says, “Well, _that_ was depressing enough for one morning. If you ever want to talk about something, we can, but maybe we both need to just chill for a while. Yeah?”

 

Derek nods, already pushing back from the table with his mug.

 

“I’m gonna wash this,” he says, but not in a voice anything like usual. “You want me to do yours?”

 

“Actually,” Stiles says, standing too, and reaching out for Derek’s mug. “Why don’t I handle these, and you can- well… I mean, if you want to hang out, maybe we can watch a movie or something? I totally get if you want your space, and you’re more than welcome to head upstairs, but you’re welcome down here, too. We don’t have to talk or anything, if you don’t want, but maybe hanging out a little would be good…?”

 

Derek studies him for a moment, but finally lets Stiles pull his mug away.

 

He gives a small nod.

 

“Netflix has the best shit,” Stiles offers carefully. “Dad got me a subscription for Christmas. I think I left it on last night, so you just have to turn on the TV.”

 

“You have a preference?” Derek asks.

 

He doesn’t seem to know what to do with his empty hands, and he shoves them in his pockets.

 

“Personally? I think we could both go for the stupidest comedy you can find.”

 

“Sounds good,” Derek agrees.

 

He walks into the living room and sits on the couch, not sparing Stiles a backwards glance as he switches it on.

 

Stiles knows Derek’s sudden confidence is probably somewhat forced, and that he has no idea how long it’ll last, _and_ that he’s only just scratched the surface of Derek’s problems, but it’s a start. Besides, it’s _miles_ ahead of where they were last night.

 

He watches from the doorway as Derek scrolls through movies, eventually stopping on Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me.

 

Stiles walks to the sink and picks up the bottle of dish soap. As he lathers up the first cup, he smiles to himself.

 

This is definitely a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! So, that was really long, and definitely tense. I'd really appreciate hearing your thoughts on it!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not usually one for Sunday afternoon updates, but I figured I'd get this in this weekend.

Things are still tense, but it’s actually not as bad as Derek thought it would be.

 

He takes up his entire couch cushion just for the hell of it, and Stiles _smiles_ at him. He’s still half-expecting Rod Serling to pop out from behind the arm chair and tell him he’s entered the Twilight Zone.

 

Neither of them are completely comfortable, of course; Derek can smell the apprehension and carefulness rolling off Stiles in waves, but it’s mixed with happiness and relief, so it’s hard to mind.

 

They make it  through the movie and put on the previous one, and Derek laughs along with Stiles—and even just laughing casually with an owner is incredibly strange—when Dr. Evil tells Scotty he has ‘a whole bag of shh!’ with his name on it. When Stiles says he’ll have to use that line on his friend Scott sometime, Derek even offers _him_ a smile. It’s weird. It’s nice. Did he mention that it’s weird?

 

Even while trying to relax, his mind is still in overdrive. Stiles had put a lot of information on the table.

 

The thing about Lydia—that’s the most interesting. As much as Derek is… _okay_ with Stiles now, Lydia and Jackson are probably equally nice people, and living with them would have a lot of advantages. Talking to Ethan would be the biggest one. Though, he’s pretty sure that Stiles wouldn’t mind him just giving Ethan a call, now. Or Isaac himself, for that matter. Oh god, talking to Isaac would be amazing. There aren’t many people that Derek cares about left in the world, but Isaac is definitely one of them.

 

Still, besides the communication part, there would be other useful things. Stiles wouldn’t have to financially support two people, for starters. Jackson and Lydia would presumably be fine with him not wearing a collar. He’d have two other werewolves around to keep him company. There’d also be risks, though. There’d be more people around to find out about his plan to run away with Cora. They might not be so accepting of his blue eyes—which, incredibly, Stiles hadn’t even _mentioned_. After all, maybe Ethan has a decent reason for his, whereas Derek’s doesn’t sound very good at all.

 

It all depends on how Stiles’ book deal works out, though, so maybe it’s just best to cross that bridge when and if he comes to it.

 

“Have you seen this before?” Stiles asks, jarring Derek from his thoughts.

 

It could easily be casual small talk, but it could also be Stiles trying to dig a little deeper into Derek’s past. And, well… Derek’s kind of content with him right now, so he obliges.

 

“With my sisters, forever ago. Right when it came out, I think.”

 

“Oh. That’s cool.”

 

He says it like he’s trying very hard not to say the wrong thing, and Derek refrains from rolling his eyes. He’s not made of _glass_ , thank you.

 

“Have you seen it before?”

 

“Um, well I was…” Stiles pauses, pulling out his phone to do a quick search, “nine, apparently, when The Spy came out, and I watched that, but I haven’t seen this one. My parents watched it, and I begged to stay in the room, so they let me. I didn’t get, like, ninety percent of the jokes at the time, but it’s pretty hysterical. Definitely a good pick.”

 

Derek’s saved from coming up with a response when everyone on screen starts shouting.

 

No matter how much better things are, watching is still definitely easier than talking.

 

* * *

 

“So, if it’s cool with you, I’m gonna go give Lydia a call,” Stiles says a few hours later. “If you wanna do something…”

 

“I’ll put on another movie,” Derek says, and Stiles nods.

 

“Cool. Good. Do that. Or, like, whatever else you want. What’s mine is-”

 

“Mine,” Derek finishes.

 

“Did I say that before?”

 

“Only four or five times.”

 

“Alright, Mr. Sarcasm, _fine_. I’m gonna go call her, and you do you.”

 

He gives yet another smile as he heads upstairs, so Derek figures all is well.

 

* * *

 

“Lyds?”

 

“I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘hello’.”

 

“Hey, sorry Danny. Y'know, when I call to talk to you, you never answer, but when I call to talk to Lydia, you’re always right there. I’m starting to think you guys pay each other to keep me away.”

 

“Sorry man, can’t give away my secrets,” Danny says. He doesn’t bother pulling the phone from his ear when he yells, “Lydia! Stiles wants to talk to you!”

 

“ _Ouch_.”

 

“It’s part of our plan to get rid of you,” Danny laughs. “Deafen you, and you’ll stop calling.”

 

Lydia picks up the other line and says, “Stiles?” just as Danny says, “See ya.”

 

The easiness Stiles had felt talking to Danny drains away quickly.

 

“Hey Lydia, I gotta talk to you.”

 

“About?”

 

“Derek.”

 

“You’re not already driving each other insane, are you?” she sighs. “It’s barely been a week.”

 

Well, there’s no good way to say it, so he might as well just come right out and…

 

“He thought I was going to rape him.”

 

“What?” Lydia demands, her exasperated tone turning sharp in a matter of seconds. “Why would he think that?”

 

“I kinda… um…”

 

“Stiles, _what did you do?_ ”

 

Okay, maybe there _was_ a better way to say that.

 

Stiles is seriously glad he didn’t do anything—well, at least not on purpose—because she sounds ready murder him and turn his hide into a new pair of heels.

 

“Nothing. Nothing, I swear. I just, like, mentioned I had a surprise for him and he should go wait in my bedroom last night—which, yeah, looking back on it could’ve been worded much better—and he took it _the worst_ possible way. So when I got there, he’s kneeling at my bed and… it all kinda went downhill from there. I got all freaked out and tried to explain that’s not what I meant, but obviously that just pissed him off even more, and he started yelling and shifted partway-”

 

“He shifted?”

 

“Yeah, why?”

 

“Nothing,” she murmurs. “That’s just one thing that I know they _do_ usually get punished for.”

 

“Yeah, well, I didn’t punish him,” Stiles sighs. “Though not for a lack of him trying to make me. He wanted to see if I would do it, but like, obviously not. Anyway, yeah, he shifted and, uh, he had blue eyes, which was kinda terrifying. And he yelled at me, and then he punched the wall, and then I locked myself in his room for the night, and he stayed in mine.”

 

“Okay,” Lydia says, tone calculating. “Well, it’s six o’clock now, so please tell me I can assume you’re not locked in your room anymore.”

 

“I’m not _that_ sad. We talked about it this morning, and… I think we’re cool now.”

 

“Just like that?”

 

He can’t blame her for sounding doubtful. He’s not totally sure himself.

 

“Well, no. We had a… a _long_ talk, and… it was good. We both apologized, and he was really cool about it, and he kinda explained that that’s what he’s used to from his old owners.”

 

“They can go to hell then,” Lydia says smoothly. “How is he now?”

 

“He’s good, I guess. He’s acting normally, cut out the whole stiff personality thing. He’s just… being a person. I mean, a lot of the normalcy is probably an act still, but it’s so much better than it was before. We watched a few movies together earlier, and he’s watching another one now, and I think it’s going okay. I just wanted to tell you because… well, because _one_ , I think I might explode if I don’t get it off my chest to someone, and I haven't even told Scott about Derek yet, and this isn't exactly the best place to start, and _two_ , maybe I can get some of that magical Lydia advice?”

 

He’s also telling her because if they do end up adopting Derek, there are certain things she should know, and know to avoid, and it’s only going to sound worse if it comes out as something he hid from her.

 

Lydia’s silent for a while, and Stiles can tell she’s deep in thought.

 

“What is it?” he asks after a few more moments.

 

“It’s worse than we thought.”

 

“What?”

 

“Slavery. We said it couldn’t be _that_ bad for everyone when you bought him, as bad as it seemed for him, but if he had multiple abusive owners, either it’s a really odd coincidence, or this is all worse than it’s made out to be. What’s that saying your father has about coincidences?”

 

“Once is an incident, twice in a coincidence-”

 

“Three times is a pattern.”

 

“Right.”

 

“You think he’s had at least three owners?”

 

“He always makes it sound like there were a lot.”

 

“And you think all of them were bad?”

 

“I don’t know, but I guess so? He didn’t believe for a second that I could want anything but to hurt him, so I’d say yes.”

 

“Sounds like a pattern,” Lydia says. “I’m going to tell Jackson, if that’s alright. Not the situation last night, but just mention that Derek finally stopped acting weird.”

 

“Why? I mean, sure, but what’s he going to do?”

 

“Get pissed off. Talk to Danny, or more likely Ethan, if he’s willing to talk about it.”

 

“Again, why?”

 

“Don’t you want to know how common maltreatment is?”

 

Stiles sighs.

 

“I guess so. But yeah, good, don’t tell him exactly what happened with Derek. I don’t think he’d appreciate the whole world knowing.”

 

“Alright,” Lydia agrees easily. “So, what are you going to do now?”

 

“No idea.”

 

“Sounds like an excellent plan.”

 

“I dunno. I’m gonna take him down to the facility and throw my dad’s name around till they take the collar off, and then I’m gonna hope he hates me less.”

 

“ _Does_ he hate you?”

 

“Maybe? He’s not acting like it, but it’s hard to say. I definitely gave him a reason to.”

 

“You said he apologized,” Lydia points out. “That’s a good sign.”

 

“Well yeah, but that just means he’s a cool guy, not that he likes me.”

 

“Well, he’s making an effort,” she says. “It’s something.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

She’s silent for a while longer before asking, “You said he has blue eyes?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Did you check why?”

 

“No,” Stiles sighs. “I should, I know, cuz maybe he’s like, super dangerous or something. But honestly, I don’t see it. He restrained himself from even hurting me when he totally had the reason and opportunity, so I doubt he’s suddenly gonna murder me in my bed. I feel like I’m kinda invading his privacy if I check. But then again, Dad’s a sheriff, and he would think I’m crazy if I don’t at least bother-”

 

He’s cut off by a knock on the door.

 

“Um, Derek?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You can come in.”

 

He does, keeping one hand on the doorknob and the other on the frame. His eyes flit down to the hole there, then quickly back to Stiles.

 

“I was wondering if you wanted dinner.”

 

“Uh,” Stiles says, sitting up from where he’s flopped down on the bed. “Nah, I’ll make it. I’m still on the phone with Lydia-”

 

“Tell him I said hello,” Lydia interjects.

 

“-who says hi, by the way, but I think we’re done for now. I can make pasta or something if you want, so you can finish your movie.”

 

“Okay,” Derek says. "Thanks." He looks like he’s struggling with something, and Stiles is about to ask what when he practically blurts, “I also wanted to know if I could talk to Ethan.”

 

Stiles blinks in surprise.

 

Derek, thankfully, doesn’t back down. He just keeps standing in the doorway, waiting for an answer.

 

“I- yeah, sure, of course, um- Lydia?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Derek wants to talk to Ethan. He around?”

 

“That’s good,” she says quietly, then pulls the receiver away and calls, “Ethan!”

 

Stiles can barely make out the, “Yeah?” that’s yelled back.

 

“Derek is on the phone! He wants to talk to you!”

 

Derek looks mildly embarrassed, like he’s still not used to inconveniencing anyone, which isn’t terribly surprising. Though, like Lydia said, it’s good that he’s going out of his comfort zone, even if he seemed to have to force himself.

 

“Text me, Stiles,” Lydia says, before hanging up.

 

“Hello?” Ethan asks, picking up the line.

 

He sounds a little wary.

 

“Oh, um-”

 

Stiles scrambles across the room, shoving the phone into Derek’s hands.

 

“I’m gonna go make dinner,” he says. “I’ll call you when it’s ready, but you can talk for as long as you want.”

 

He rushes down the hall, trying to give Derek some privacy.

 

Even if why Derek suddenly wants to talk to Ethan is beyond Stiles, he decides anything new he's willing to try is definitely still a good thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, your thoughts are very much appreciated!


	15. Chapter 15

“You realize you’re about six hours off here, right? And that  _you_  called  _me?”_  Ethan asks.

 

“Yeah.”

 

In an incredibly low voice, probably too low for human ears, he asks, “He’s not making you do this, is he?”

 

“No, uh, it’s fine,” Derek assures. “He’s- he’s an okay guy. He let me talk to you.”

 

“And… this is because you guys had some sort of magical breakthrough?”

 

“Something like that.”

 

“Alright,” Ethan says, easily enough. Derek decides he likes him even more for not questioning it. “Well what’s up?”

 

“I was wondering if you’ve heard anything new.”

 

“Sorry, man. Nothing yet.”

 

“It's alright,” Derek says. Maybe it’s better that they haven’t heard anything yet—if Cora comes  _too_  soon, he might not even be ready to run away. Then again, she could be bought before her lot ever reaches Beacon Hills. He tries not to focus on how many things could go wrong. “Do you think I could get Isaac’s phone number?”

 

“You’re gonna call him yourself?”

 

“The magical breakthrough seems to equal me being allowed to do what I want. And I want to talk to my best friend.”

 

“Fair enough,” Ethan says. “It’s 415-555-0172. There are eight other guys living there, but Isaac managed to get himself on phone duty, so he should pick up. The man works weekdays from nine to seven, and his wife stays home, but goes out at six o’clock every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday to play cards, and stays out around three hours.”

 

“She goes out right when her husband gets home?”

 

Ethan laughs.

 

“It’s a  _very_  happy marriage. But listen, that means you can call right now if you want, but you’ve only got like an hour window, and Isaac likes to get off quickly. I’m still going to try to keep up on any news I can about your sister, by the way. You’ve got me all invested in this, now.” Derek hears the unspoken ‘if I can’t be with my sibling, at least someone can’ loud and clear. “So I’ll talk to you some other time?”

 

“Yeah,” Derek says. He means it, too. He could call Ethan just to talk; Stiles would probably even be pleased by it. Just because he’s the only slave here doesn’t mean he can’t have any friends. Ethan’s a great option, too, considering he won’t be surprised when Derek suddenly leaves him behind. “I really appreciate all this. If you ever need anything…”

 

“I’ve got more here than I’ve had in a long time,” Ethan says, perpetually waving off the offer. “Now hurry up and call him.”

 

* * *

 

“Paulson residence, Slave 02641 speaking. Master and Mistress Paulson are not present at the moment, but I can take a message. Who may I say is calling?” 

 

Slave 02641. Isaac.

 

“Yes, I’d like to leave a message,” Derek says, voice deep and serious. “You can tell  _Master_  and  _Mistress_  that Derek Hale is on the phone.”

 

“Dude!” Isaac says, and there’s a crashing sound, like he’d smacked his hand against some nearby object. “You fucking-  _dude!_ ”

 

“Hey,” Derek laughs. “Such  _language_ , Slave 02641.”

 

“Ah, yes, my  _apologies_ , Mr. 01927. I didn’t mean to offend your delicate sensibilities.  _Asshole_.”

 

God, it’s so good to hear Isaac’s voice.

 

Derek had gotten a glimpse of him at the auction, but they weren’t near enough to talk, and they haven’t been together since before Derek’s last owner.

 

“How are you doing this?” Isaac demands, before Derek even gets a chance to respond. He sounds equal parts excited and nervous. “Please tell me you’re not doing some risky shit to get yourself in trouble. I swear, I’m gonna hang up right now if-”

 

“It’s fine,” Derek interrupts. “The guy who picked me up--Stiles--and I came to an understanding.”

 

“You know that sounds worse, right? Like, so much worse.”

 

“Not anything bad,” Derek amends, sitting down on the edge of his bed. “He’s a good guy.”

 

“Really?” Isaac asks. It’s hard to blame him for sounding skeptical—Derek doesn’t exactly have the best track record for ending up with good owners. “Ethan didn’t seem to know if he was okay or not.”

 

“He is,” Derek says. Saying it out loud, assuring someone else, is new. It makes it feel more real, somehow. “We had a fight last night-”

 

“You know when I told you to give the new guys hell, I meant more like spilling their morning coffee, right? Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

 

“No, it- it wasn’t like that. I thought he wanted to do some bedroom shit, but he actually freaked out at the idea. I ended up yelling at him, and I kind of punched his wall-”

 

“ _Derek_.”

 

“-but it’s fine,” he says again. “He was being really nice all week before that, and we had a long talk about it this morning, and everything’s okay. He’s not mad. He just wants me to be like… his housemate. I don’t even have to clean or anything. He even said he’s going to try to get my collar taken off.”

 

“He bought you to be his housemate? How lonely  _is_  he?”

 

“It’s not like that. It’s... a long story. I’ll tell you when we have more time, sometime.”

 

“Huh. Derek Hale having a long, understanding talk with an owner,” Isaac mutters. “Weird shit.” His voice is softer when he adds, “That’s really great though, Der. I’m happy for you.”

 

“Thanks,” Derek says. He quickly clears his throat, not wanting things to get all sappy; he generally tries to avoid talking about how bad past owners have been. “How’re things by you? These Paulson people treating you okay? Need me to kick their asses? Or uh, maybe just punch a hole through their walls?”

 

Isaac laughs.

 

“I think I’m good, man. I mean, Master and Mistress Resting Bitchface are just loving me,” he deadpans. “Richard is straight, and Jenn is having a not-so-secret affair with one of the neighbors, so I don’t have to deal with anything too shitty. It’s like a regular soap opera over here, though. Master Dick—and you have no idea what a tragedy it is that I’m not allowed to use his nickname, by the way—has a bit of a trigger finger, but with the eight others here, I’ve been avoiding shocks. It’s a hell of a lot better than Dad’s place, so I’ll take it.”

 

Dad’s place—that is, Isaac’s general basis for comparison. His abusive father was his first owner, and also his worst. Derek supposes that’s a good thing, that things have at least been going uphill, and that it’s been long enough that Isaac can joke about it.

 

After all, Derek still can’t joke about Kate.

 

“But you know what’s awesome?” Isaac continues. “I saw the people Erica got picked up by, and one of the guys the Paulsons picked up with me used to work for her new owners. He said they’re actually super chill. They’ve even got kids, so they’re the non-violent type.”

 

Isaac’s always as up to date as he can get on which owners are good and bad, violent and non-violent, interested and uninterested in sex, etcetera, and informs whoever he can at the auctions, and picks up even more information in exchange for the warnings. Most slaves get traded around the same state, unless no one bids on them at  _any_  of the auctions, so he’s managed to get quite a bit of information on Northern Californian frequent buyers.

 

Even though Isaac can’t see him, Derek smiles at the news.

 

Erica and her boyfriend, Boyd, are the two closest friends Derek has had besides Isaac, and even though none of them are alphas, they’d come as close to a pack as slaves can really get. When Master Harris sold them all off, they were each picked up by different owners, and Derek hasn’t seen either of them since Harris’ house.

 

Erica was always a bit of a spitfire, and while she usually controlled it, her mouth did tend to get her in trouble once in a while. Boyd, on the other hand, was probably the quietest person Derek has ever met. That’s a good quality in a slave, but Derek had been relieved to learn that Boyd had always been quiet, and that he hadn’t simply had enough terrible owners to make him utterly submissive. He and Erica kept each other in balance, and it was horrible to see them separated.

 

Still, it’s good that Erica’s in a good home now. At least that’s one person in Derek’s life that he can count on being relatively happy for a while.

 

“That's really great. She always loved kids.”

 

“Yeah,” Isaac agrees. “Too bad she’s got someone else’s brats to handle instead of her own, but this should be kind of good, at least. I uh, couldn’t get any news on Boyd, though,” he adds, as though reading Derek’s thoughts. “I didn’t see him at the auction, and it doesn’t sound like anyone else did, either, so I guess he’s still with the last guy who picked him up.”

 

The last man who bought Boyd had looked brutish, and had picked up four other slaves, none of whom Derek had ever seen before. All they can really do is hope the guy isn’t as bad as he looks, and that if he is, that Boyd’s passive demeanor has been keeping him out of trouble.

 

“You know Boyd, though,” Isaac says, with forced cheer. “He’s got a cool head. Big guy’s probably fine.”

 

Hopefully, at least. 

 

“Yeah,” Derek agrees. “Probably. So, uh, I wanted to-”

 

“Ask me about Cora?” 

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Sorry, man,” Isaac sighs. “Nothing new. The Paulsons are auction hounds, so they’re always talking about new slaves for sale and keeping up on things, and apparently they drop by the facility like, once a month, but I haven’t heard anything about her. Well, at least I don’t think so. They talk about everyone in terms of numbers, and I don’t know hers, so that’s pretty unhelpful. But they also print out pictures from the Calaveras’ website once in a while, and you told me what she looks like, so maybe, eventually that could be useful. Dark hair, dark eyes, strong jawline, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Derek agrees. At least, that’s what she looked like as a child. “She’s pretty pale, and Laura was around 5’10 when she stopped growing, so Cora might be kind of tall too.”

 

“That’s good. Pictures don't go up till a couple days before the auctions, though, but I’ll let you know if I hear anything,” Isaac says. “And if you need help making plans or whatever, I’ll do what I can.”

 

“I know,” Derek says. “Thanks, Isaac.”

 

“No problem, man. I’ll be almost as happy as you, if we find her. Anyway, as much as I'd love to talk, I don’t really wanna racket up their phone bill enough that they start noticing, so…”

 

“Got it,” Derek says. “I’ll talk to you some other time.”

 

“Definitely. As soon as I get some info. You want me to call you, or…?”

 

“I’ll call,” Derek says. “Ethan told me what hours are good.”

 

Stiles may be okay with him calling people now, but it’d probably be better for everyone involved if he didn’t know about Isaac.

 

“Cool,” Isaac says. “It was really good to hear from you, man. And uh… I’m really glad you’re happy over there.”

 

“Thanks, Isaac. Hopefully things keep going alright for you.”

 

“And if not you’ll kick Paulson’s ass?”

 

“Obviously.”

 

“Good,” Isaac laughs. “I’ll talk to you soon, Der.”

 

“Alright,” Derek says, smiling down at his knees. “Bye, Isaac.”

 

* * *

 

“You have a good talk?” Stiles asks, heaping spaghetti onto Derek’s plate.

 

“Yeah,” he says. “A really good talk.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whooo, yay for new characters! ;)
> 
> We'll be meeting some not-quite-as-pleasant ones soon, so that should be interesting... 
> 
> As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanna warn you guys for something, but I don't want to give the whole chapter away, so if any of the tags might be triggering for you, please check the end notes for clarification.

Two more days go by in a relatively similar manner.

 

Derek does more sitting around and movie-watching than he’s probably ever done consecutively, even as a kid.

 

Stiles does a lot of writing, but when he does, it’s usually in the living room so he can hang out around Derek.

 

It’s still weird. They tip-toe around each other a lot of the time, but at least it’s out of fear of screwing up than of actual, plain fear. Stiles, even with all his flailing limbs, doesn’t get too close into Derek’s personal space, and tends to ask him if he wants company before he sits down in the living room with him—which is where Derek spends most of his time, considering his room is basically just four walls and a ceiling. Derek always says yes. It’s Stiles’ house, for one thing, and oddly enough, it’s not like he _minds_ spending time together.

 

It’s hard to avoid each other in such a small house, and he doesn’t really have a reason to want to avoid Stiles, who’s been nothing but nice to him, anyway. Maybe he doesn’t want to be best friends, but he doesn’t really mind hanging out. Plus, if Stiles is going to let Derek laze around all day watching TV, Derek doesn’t care _what_ Stiles is doing.

 

Although, of course, he ought to know by now that when there’s calm in his life, it’s more like the calm before the storm.

 

* * *

 

 

“So,” Stiles says the second night. They’re sitting in front of the TV, blandly watching the news. “I called up the facility earlier, and they said they have an opening for me to come in and talk to one of their guys tomorrow. Maybe we can finally get that thing off you.”

 

That thing. The collar.

 

“That’s great,” Derek says. Great doesn’t even begin to cover it. He doesn’t have a single word in his vocabulary that begins to cover it. “Thank you.”

 

“Course, man,” Stiles says easily. “It’s at ten, so y’know, be ready and whatever.”

 

“I will,” Derek says, eyes cutting briefly to Stiles before he gets off the couch. “I think I’m gonna get to bed.”

 

“Cool,” Stiles says. “Night, Derek.”

 

“Goodnight.”

 

* * *

 

Derek stares in the mirror for a long time.

 

He runs his fingers over the collar—the thin, innocuous-looking band of metal that’s ruled his life for so long. It’s the collar Kate had used, and Matt, and Adrian, and every owner in between. They’d put it on him as a teenager, almost fifteen years ago, and it hasn’t come off since. And now it’s going to.

 

He really shouldn’t think that, though. He can’t be sure. Stiles’ father certainly gives him an advantage, but like all traders, the Calaveras are hardasses, and won’t be happy about taking it off. There’ll be speeches about liability and the dangers of uncollared Weres, and Derek’s behavioral issues will certainly be brought up. By the end of it, Stiles may decide it’s less hassle to just leave it on.

 

It’s all too easy to picture, the Calaveras berating him with events from Derek’s past, and Stiles deciding maybe he will keep it after all. Maybe he’d promise not to use it—hell, it seems he would even stick to that promise, but…

 

It’s the principle of the thing.

 

He doesn’t want to wear the collar. Even if it wasn’t electrified, even if Stiles never, ever used it. It’s a status symbol, marking him as something lower than everyone else. It’s a reminder of everything he’s been through, of each owner who’s used it to hurt him countless times.

 

He drags his fingers away from his throat, fixing himself with a hard look in the mirror.

 

He’s just going to have to trust Stiles.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, up and at’em,” Stiles calls, rapping his knuckles against Derek’s door as he passes by.

 

“I’m already dressed,” Derek calls back.

 

“Geez, you didn’t have to one up me,” Stiles says, knowing Derek can hear him as he thumps down the stairs. He’s still in his pajamas, but caffeine’s more important than clothing, if you ask him. “I’m putting on a pot of coffee, so come down when you’re ready.”

 

Derek’s down in the kitchen a few minutes later, and pours himself a cup, and unlike Stiles, a bowl of cereal. He’d asked if he could have some yesterday, and though it seemed to be more out of politeness than apprehension, Stiles had insisted Derek could have just about anything in the house, so he’s happy when he doesn’t ask this morning.

 

They drink in silence—there’s a bit of a nervous energy around Derek, even if he would probably never admit it, so Stiles thinks it’s probably better not to disturb him—and then Stiles heads upstairs to get ready to go. By the time he’s done, it’s time to hit the road.

 

“Hey, c’mon,” Stiles says, grabbing his keys as he passes Derek by. “You ready to go?”

 

Derek nods, getting off the couch.

 

“You got the controls?” Stiles asks.

 

Derek pulls the shock controls that Stiles had left in his room the other day from his pocket.

 

“Awesome,” Stiles says, since Derek seems to be a man of very few words, even fewer than usual, this morning. “Let’s go.”

 

He steps outside and locks the door behind them, and opens the Jeep. Derek only hesitates for a second before climbing into the front seat.

 

They buckle up and pull out. It’s so odd to think that it was barely more than a week ago that they were driving home for the first time in the same position.

 

Derek’s mostly quiet on the way there, answering the very few questions Stiles bothers trying to spark up conversations with with Yes or No answers. He doesn’t react to nervousness the same way as Stiles. Rather than fidgeting, he’s sitting perfectly still, staring straight ahead, and Stiles can easily guess that that’s something that was instilled into him by use of the collar.

 

“Here we are,” Stiles says, when they pull into the parking lot. It’s relatively empty, which makes sense, considering there’s no auctions coming up soon, and it’s a weekday morning. “Do you… do you need a sec, or?”

 

Derek shakes his head, quickly reaching for the handle of the door and trying to open it, only to realize Stiles hadn’t unlocked the car yet.

 

“Okay,” Stiles says, opening it. He feels like he should say something, do something to appease Derek, but the entire point of all this is to appease Derek. When it’s over and they’re away from here, everything will be fine.

 

He and Derek get out, and he’s glad it’s a short walk to the entrance.

 

A buff man dressed in all black is standing at the door. There’s a taser on his hip, and his vest bulges in a few places, concealing unknown objects.

 

“Can I help you, sir?” he asks gruffly.

 

“Hey, yeah. I’m Stiles Stilinski. I’ve got an appointment to talk about getting Derek’s collar removed,” he says, jerking a thumb at Derek.

 

It’s only then that he realizes Derek’s posture has completely shifted.

 

His hands are straight at his sides, eyes trained on the floor, and he’s hunched in on himself a little, just like he used to stand when Stiles first bought him. It’s hard to tell if it’s for show, or if Derek actually feels the need to do it here, but either way it makes Stiles want to put a comforting hand on his shoulder and promise no one here is going to hurt him. He most certainly doesn’t do that, though. Derek likes his space, and Stiles has been doing his best not to invade it. 

 

“Talk to the secretary,” the guard says, jutting his chin inside. “She’ll help you out.”

 

“Cool,” Stiles says. “Thanks.”

 

He walks past the man and in through the door, Derek trailing at a respectful distance behind him. It’s upsetting, to say the least.

 

“Hello!” the woman at the front desk greets. “How can I help you today?”

 

“Um, I’ve got an appointment to speak about getting Derek’s collar removed,” he says, gesturing behind himself again.

 

“Slave 01927?” she asks, sounding just as chipper.

 

“Derek, yes,” Stiles says. “Can you direct me?”

 

“Sure thing. Go down this hall,” she says, pointing. “Hang a left and you’ll hit a room that says ‘Waiting’ on the door. You can leave 01927 there,” Stiles might have to buy him one of those _hi, my name is _____!_ stickers, “and then if you go out the door on the opposite end, and hang two rights, you’ll hit a dead end. That’s the office.”

 

“Thanks,” Stiles says, forcing a smile.

 

“Yep!”

 

He heads off in the direction she instructed, and it’s not long before they hit the waiting room. They’re the only ones there, though there are security cameras lining the walls, and they had passed two guards on the way. Maybe they only keep a guy in here on the busy days.

 

“You good waiting here?” Stiles asks.

 

Derek nods, sitting down in one of the hard plastic chairs.

 

“Okay,” Stiles says. “Okay. Cool. I’m gonna go talk to the guy, and you, uh, wait here.”

 

Derek nods again.

 

He doesn’t look up at him, but Stiles can practically feel eyes boring into his back as he walks away.

 

* * *

 

Derek sits in the waiting room for ten minutes, trying not to worry.

 

Worrying isn’t going to do him any good, and if he’s worrying, that means he’s got his hopes up, which he’s not supposed to do.

 

He thinks of the genuine concern on Stiles’ face since they got in the car, and tries to assure himself that that’s a good sign. He’s not just going to give up on Derek.

 

“Well this,” a voice behind him says, startling him from his thoughts. “ _This_ is a pleasant surprise.”

 

No. No, this can’t be happening. He has to be hearing wrong. He has to be imagining it.

 

How the _hell_ is this happening?

 

“What’s the matter, sweetie? Cat got your tongue?” There’s the sound of high heels clicking across the floor, slowly, deliberately, and Derek should just get up and fucking move, but he can’t. “Or did you finally get so darn _mouthy_ -” fingers land on his left shoulder, drumming lightly, and God, why can’t he just fucking _do_ something, “-that someone went and cut it out?”

 

The hand stays on his shoulder as the heels circle his chair, and that’s all Derek, who’s determinedly staring at the floor, can even see as she stops in front of him. He registers her leaning down, so her face is level with his, and she tightens her grip just a little, fingernails digging into the meat of his shoulder.

 

“That would be such a shame," she purrs. "You used to really know how to use it.”

 

No. No fucking no, no, no, _no_.

 

A gentle hand slips under his chin, and all he can bring himself to do is swallow past the lump in his throat. She tilts his head up, and he lets her—he fucking _lets_ her—till he’s looking her right in the eyes.

 

His ex-girlfriend. His ex-master. The woman who burned his home to the ground and decimated his family, sending him into the shitstorm that’s become his life.

 

Kate Argent.

 

She stares back at him, eyes glinting with cold delight.

 

“Get your hands off of me,” Derek finally manages to grit out.

 

“Don’t you miss the good old days, Derek?” Kate asks, with a deep, wistful sigh. “I remember when you were _begging_ to get these hands on you.”

 

“Get your hands off of me,” Derek repeats, voice low and guttural, but _just_ on the verge of shaking, “or I’m going to rip your fucking throat out.”

 

“ _Are_ you?” she asks, sounding extraordinarily impressed. “Here? Gee, Derek, I know you have a particular talent for fucking things up, but now? Mmm, doesn’t seem like the time or place, sweetheart.”

 

The Argents. Out of the hundreds and hundreds of slave facilities across the country, the one nearest to Beacon Hills is now run by the _Argents_. What the hell happened to the Calaveras?

 

“See,” she continues. “I was just looking through the arrangements for today, and I saw the most interesting thing. My brother has an appointment with a Mr. Stilinski, to speak about the de-collaring of Slave 01927. And I thought, ‘that can’t be _my_ Slave 01927, can it? Maybe his big bad temper finally went and got him killed, and they reassigned his number.’ But I figured I shouldn’t miss out on a good opportunity based on an assumption, right? And look what a good choice that was." She smiles sharply. "Now, sweetie, I know you have issues with authority, so maybe you’ll take some friendly advice instead. If you want to rip my throat out?” She leans in even closer, and her lips brush against the shell of his ear, hot and familiar and _wrong_. “Go ahead. _I dare you._ But if you even lay one finger on me? Not only will you not get that collar taken off, but Derek.... my father might want to have a word with you, and there won’t be much your cute little owner can do to stop it. You get me?”

 

She pulls back then, eyes shining maliciously.

 

“You know?” she adds, as though just having had a brilliant thought. “Speaking of your owner… He sounds like a really stand-up guy, Derek, wanting to get that collar off and all. Maybe I’ll just have to drop by Chris’ office, bring him a cup of coffee, see how the two of us get along. See if I can’t convince him otherwise.”

 

She brushes her fingertips against Derek’s collar, almost sensually. He wants to throw up. He doesn’t even know if he could manage _that_ , right now.

 

“After all, I do have some wonderful stories about the things you’ve done. Reasons monsters like you _need_ to be collared. Maybe I could even tell him about some of the _fun_ we’ve had with that thing. I know I always loved it.”

 

 _Stiles isn’t like that_ , Derek reminds himself firmly. _We had a fucking long talk about this._

 

And yet, some screwed up, panicking part of his brain really couldn’t care less.

 

“Oh, sweetie,” Kate murmurs. “You look upset. You sure you’re feeling alright?”

 

She backs off then, but not before dragging a hand through his hair.

 

“You always did look so _pretty_ when you’re stressed.”

 

She takes a step back, dragging her eyes up his body.

 

“Maybe I can even convince him to sell you, hmmm? If he had to come in for an actual appointment, I guess he didn’t just drop us a big figure over the phone, right? How much do you think I’d have to give him for you, Derek? A thousand? Is that how much you’re going for, these days? I mean,” she laughs, “you’re not exactly a spring chicken anymore, huh? But what do you think it would take? You know him best, don’t you? Two grand? _Three?_ I might have to draw the line there, Der. As fun as you were, muscle-headed werewolves are a dime a dozen. Though what’s swirling around _inside_ your pretty little head… all the anger and self-hatred? That’s worth more than anything else. Because we both know, don’t we, sweetheart? You hate yourself more than you could ever hate me.”

 

She smiles, cocking her head and twirling a finger thoughtfully through her hair.

 

“That sounds like a plan,” she says decisively. “I think I’ll go have a little chat with Mr. Stilinski. If you’re lucky, maybe he’ll let you know how it goes. If not,” she says, turning on a heel, “I will.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning:** run-in with a past abuser, implications of past rape, beginning of a panic attack.
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoyed ~~y'know, in the painful kind of way~~ , and I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So, kinda bad news... I started school last week, and since I take all honors and AP classes I'm pretty much swamped with work 24/7, which doesn't leave much free time for writing. Updating this, along with my other WIP, isn't going to be able to be a weekly thing anymore, unfortunately. I'll try to update as often as possible (I'll still be trying for weekly updates, but there will definitely be exceptions), and _hopefully_ things aren't affected too much. Thanks for understanding!

“So, Mr. Stilinski, you wanted to-”

 

The man, Chris Argent, according to his nametag, is cut off by a loud whirring noise from outside. He takes a deep breath, and it’s not hard to tell that it’s been getting on his nerves for a while.

 

“Construction?” Stiles asks.

 

“Yeah,” Chris says, leaning back in his chair. “We’re having all the Calaveras’ signs taken down and replaced, so it’s been pretty loud around here lately. Excuse us.”

 

“No, it’s cool,” Stiles says. “But uh, why are you having the signs replaced?”

 

“We bought the Calaveras out,” Chris says. “This is an Argent facility now. We picked up all the slaves, along with the facility and auction house. Our family just moved here, so it seemed like a good idea to set up shop as soon as possible.”

 

Huh.

 

“Funny,” Stiles says. “I hadn’t heard.”

 

Not that he keeps up on any of this stuff, but it’d probably help if Chris doesn’t know about his lack of experience and upkeep with all of this.

 

“It was pretty sudden,” he says. “But back to business. You’re looking to have 01927’s collar removed, correct?”

 

“Derek, yeah,” Stiles says.

 

“Derek,” Chris repeats slowly.

 

Stiles would be mentally high-fiving himself for getting someone to say his actual name if not for the look in Chris’ eyes. Something like recognition clicks there, or maybe puzzlement, but Stiles writes it off. Maybe he’s traded Derek before; that would make sense.

 

“Yep. So um, how do we do this?”

 

“I have to tell you, Mr. Stilinski, we don’t encourage the de-collaring of slaves.”

 

Stiles has a strong urge to say, _I have to tell you, Mr. Argent, I don’t encourage the collaring of people_ , but reigns himself in.

 

“I’d still like it removed.”

 

“Then I’ll have to inform you of the risks.”

 

“I’m not going to change my mind,” Stiles says firmly.

 

He pictures Derek, with his curled shoulders and downcast eyes, and knows it’s the truth.

 

“Regardless,” Chris says. “It’s part of my job to go over his file with you and explain the dangers. You’ll also have to sign a form stating that Argent Facilities is not liable should Derek cause anyone harm while uncollared.”

 

“Fine,” Stiles says, sitting up straighter. “Go ahead.”

 

Chris digs in his desk and pulls out a file with Derek’s number scrawled across the tab. He opens it up and spreads out some papers, and drags the back of his pen through rows and rows of information, skimming.

 

“He has behavioral issues,” Chris says, apparently finding what he was looking for on the third page.

 

“Not for me.”

 

“It’s been reported by a large number of past owners that he does. The purpose of the collar is to minimize such incidents.”

 

“Derek is a thirty year old man. I don’t think I have to worry about his behavior.”

 

“He’s expressed violence towards owners before,” Chris continues. “He’s been reported as easily angered by multiple masters. No serious injuries have occurred, thanks to the collar, but only thanks to the collar. Have you seen any of this violence firsthand yet?”

 

 _Technically_ , yes, but not for no good reason.

 

“No. He’s been behaving perfectly fine.”

 

“You picked him up at the last auction, you said on the phone? It’s hardly been a week, Mr. Stilinski. It’s very hard to get to know someone in so little time.”

 

Stiles hardly knows anything about Derek, true, but he definitely knows more about him, the real him, than anyone else who’s ever owned him.

 

“I’m not worried about that.”

 

“You don’t seem very worried _at all_. Have you owned a slave before?”

 

Stiles is beginning to see why people pay them to just shut up and remove the collars.

 

“No, but my friends have owned one for years. And he’s been uncollared practically since they bought him.”

 

“Perhaps he’s better behaved than Derek,” Chris suggests.

 

“Again,” Stiles sighs. “Derek is behaving _fine_. And anyway, even if he wasn’t, I wouldn’t use the collar on him.”

 

“If that’s your stance, have you considered leaving the collar on him simply as a precaution, and if there ever is some sort of issue, using it only then?”

 

“I’m not interested in that. I want it removed.”

 

Stiles understands it’s Chris’ job to convince him against it—after all, even if they’re not liable, it would probably be terrible press if one of their wolves attacked someone—but it’s still incredibly annoying.

 

“I see. Well-”

 

He’s cut off by a sharp knock on the door.

 

“Come in,” he calls.

 

Stiles turns to look as a blonde woman saunters into the office, carrying a Styrofoam tray of coffee. She hands one to Chris, and oddly enough, one to Stiles.

 

“Thought I’d bring you something from the breakroom,” she says, hopping up on the corner of Chris’ desk and crossing her legs. “Figured you’d have a client, too.”

 

She smiles at Stiles, but it looks almost _too_ friendly. 

 

“Mr. Stilinski, this is my sister, our senior sales associate.”

 

“Among other things,” she says, sticking out a hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Stilisnki.”

 

“And you, Ms. Argent,” Stiles says, reaching out to shake it.

 

“Oh, please, call me Kate. While I’m here, is there anything I can help you with?”

 

Chris looks wary, like he’s debating how to answer.

 

Finally, he says, “Nothing important. We’re discussing the removal of 01927’s collar. You can head back to work.”

 

“I’m on break,” she says, waving a hand at him. “But I’m happy to stick around. I’m interested to see how this goes.”

 

Chris seems frustrated, so Stiles doesn’t comment. Maybe it’s some weird sibling rivalry. That would explain Kate’s forced friendliness.

 

“Interested?” Chris asks.

 

“Interested. I was wondering if you’d consider selling him,” she says, turning to Stiles.

 

That reaffirms his idea that the Argents had traded Derek before.

 

“Derek?” Stiles asks, surprised.

 

He doesn’t really know what to say. He wasn’t exactly expecting someone to try to buy Derek off him. Though hey, it’s a slave facility; maybe it’s common.

 

“Derek,” Kate agrees. She and Chris, at least, acknowledge that he has a name. “Would you consider selling him for two thousand?”

 

“Two thousand?” Stiles echoes.

 

“Cash.”

 

“I thought there was a no returns policy for the first month,” Stiles says, just to say something.

 

He doesn’t really know how to tell her no—she seems a bit overbearing—so maybe he can just reason his way around it.

 

“Oh, not for the facility,” she says, smile brightening. “For myself.”

 

Why on Earth would this woman want to buy Derek? There are infinite other slaves in this very building, and she could probably have any of them for free. This is _weird_.

 

“Um, I’m not interested in selling him,” Stiles says, a little startled.

 

“Would twenty-five hundred be better?”

 

 He’s not going to sell Derek, especially not to a stranger. No way in hell.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m really not interested,” he says, more firmly.

 

“Kate-” Chris starts, but she cuts him off.

 

“How about five thousand?”

 

Her eyes are suddenly steely with resolve, and it’s oddly frightening. Stiles thinks of how terrified Derek was when Stiles overbid for him, and this, this is…

 

This is wrong. So wrong.

 

He doesn’t know what’s going on, but he’s not selling Derek to anyone, let alone this woman with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, who’s probably up to her ears in ulterior motives. Five grand would go a _long_ way for him, sure, but Derek’s life? There’s no price to put on that.

 

She could offer him a million dollars, and Stiles is sure he would rather keep living in his tiny house and calling up the electric company every other month than sell Derek back to the life he used to live.

 

“No.”

 

Kate’s features harden for a brief moment, before she nods.

 

“I appreciate a good businessman,” she says. “I’m afraid that’s as far as I can reasonably go. I hope you enjoy him as much as I did.”

 

She winks.

 

“As much as you did?”

 

“Oh, didn’t you know? He’s originally of Argent stock. I owned him myself, a while back.”

 

She says all of this with that smile still pasted on, and Stiles thinks of Derek’s hatred for every single past owner.

 

Maybe he can get Derek out of here without him even realizing they’re in an Argent building. Stiles wouldn’t know the place had been bought from the Calaveras if Chris hadn’t mentioned it, and what Derek doesn’t know can’t hurt him.

 

Before Stiles can think of a response, Kate plows on.

 

“So, did you tell him about the behavioral issues?”

 

Chris nods.

 

“And that he’s killed someone?”

 

She’s asking Chris but looking right at Stiles, and she doesn’t sound terribly torn up about it. More like satisfied, actually.

 

“I read his papers,” Stiles says flatly.

 

He still hasn’t, in all honesty, but Derek flashing blue eyes at him was certainly enough of an indication.

 

“And you’re fine with that?” Kate asks lightly. “We don’t even know the reason he did it—it was before he ever came to us. That’s a bit concerning, isn’t it?”

 

Yes, it _is_ a bit concerning. A lot concerning, really, because blue doesn’t just mean that he killed someone, but that he killed someone innocent. Stiles still doesn’t know what to make of that. What he does know, though, is that the scared man sitting in his kitchen this morning, staring nervously into his coffee and eating Froot Loops, isn’t some sort of cold-blooded murderer.   

 

What’s more concerning, anyway, is that this woman is intent on buying a slave she apparently finds so problematic. 

 

“There might’ve been extenuating circumstances,” Stiles points out. “He definitely doesn’t seem murderous.”

 

“That’s the problem with werewolves,” Kate says disdainfully. “They look just like us, but they’re all monsters, deep down.”

 

“Listen,” Stiles says, trying not to fume. “I’d like to have Derek’s collar removed. I own him, this facility _doesn’t_ , and it’s my right to have his collar taken off. That stupid tracking device around his ankle, too, come to think of it. And Mr. Argent tells me you’re new in town? Maybe you haven’t met the other Mr. Stilisnki yet. _Sheriff_ Stilisnki. He’d probably agree that my property is _my_ property,” he also tries not to think about how much Derek would absolutely hate hearing him say that, even if it’s the only way to get through to these people, “and I have the right to do what I want with him. What I want is to have his collar taken off.”

 

Well. _That_ wasn’t how he meant that to go.

 

Kate looks taken aback for the briefest moment, before she nods, face schooling back to that ominous smile.

 

“I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting the sheriff yet,” she says coolly. “I’m sure he’s a busy man, though. No reason to call him over something so silly, hmm? You sign the papers, and Chris will be more than happy to take the collar off. Anyway, I think I’ll be going. Send Derek my regards, would you?”

 

With that, she hops off the desk and sweeps back out of the room before Stiles even has a chance to think of something snappish to say.

 

Chris looks at Stiles wearily, frowning a little, and says, “I’ll go get the supplies.”    

 

* * *

 

Derek is furious. He’s furious, and terrified, and that only makes him more furious. Which, of course, only makes him more terrified. It's a vicious cycle. 

 

Kate is supposed to be gone. Out of his life forever.

 

He should’ve known better.

 

He needs to calm down. He knows it, knows that if Stiles shows up here with Chris, only to see Derek just barely hanging onto control—because that’s what he’s doing, with his claws dug deeply into his hands, and his fangs dropping in and out—they’re going to laugh right in Stiles’ face.

 

But what if Stiles _doesn’t_ show up?

 

What if he has to go back to Kate?

 

Stiles needs money, and Kate’s not wrong about three grand being a high price for someone Derek’s age. It’s not that he doesn’t have some faith in Stiles. He does. He does, but he’s not expecting miracles. If it’s a choice between paying his bills—and unloading a huge extra expense while he’s at it—and helping some angry, violent slave, the choice is all too obvious.

 

It’s not like Derek thinks he would do it with bad intentions, either. It’s just that Kate can put on a very good show when she wants, and she’s willing to pay. She could easily twist it around to look like she’s a good owner, and Stiles might even think he’s doing Derek a favor by selling him.

 

_Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God._

 

Kate could buy him. He could actually, legitimately end up back in Kate’s house, in Kate’s _bed_ , and-

 

_“I remember when you were begging to get these hands on you.”_

 

_Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God._

 

He feels himself start to shake, but otherwise keeps as still as possible, unsure if someone’s watching him on the surveillance cameras.

 

_Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God._

 

* * *

 

Derek is sitting right where Stiles left him, but for whatever reason, his eyes are squeezed shut—though they snap open when Stiles opens the door—and he’s trembling violently, but otherwise sitting perfectly still.

 

“Derek?”

 

He takes a step inside, but Derek gives no reaction.

 

Stiles has never seen him like this. Angry? Yes. Submissive? Yes. But scared? On this level? This is uncharted territory, and Stiles would really rather not explore it with Chris Argent around.

 

“Hey, Derek,” he says, slowly walking closer.

 

He reaches the row in front of Derek’s and stops, trying to figure out what the hell is going on.

 

“You okay?”

 

It doesn’t take a genius to figure that one out, but Derek doesn’t even roll his eyes, just sits and stares and shakes.

 

“Right, um, yeah, okay, stupid question.” Stiles takes another step forward, getting as close as Derek will let him without being invasive. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

 

Derek doesn’t even acknowledge him, just keeps looking at him—through him?—for reasons far beyond Stiles.

 

“Okay. That’s okay. Listen, this is going to make me sound like the biggest asshole ever, but I kind of need you to calm down. Chris Argent, the guy who works here, is going to come take your collar off. That’s good, right? And then we’re gonna go home, and we can talk about it, or you can have your space, or- or whatever. But um, Chris is going to be here in like five minutes, after he goes and grabs a few things, and… I mean again, not to sound horribly insensitive, even though, like, I totally do, but he’s already being weird about taking your collar off, and if he sees you losing control, he might say no.”

 

“We’re… going home?” Derek asks, in a voice so weak and soft and different from usual that it makes Stiles’ chest hurt.

 

“Well, yeah,” he says, because the notion of home seems to help. He’s not surprised; if he were a werewolf, he’d want to get out of this place too. Hell, he’s not a werewolf and he _still_ wants to get out of this place. “The guy is gonna come and take off the collar, and then we’re gonna head back home. Okay?”

 

He’s reached Derek now, standing right next to him, and stops. Now more than ever Stiles wants to comfort him, put a hand on his shoulder, find out why the hell he’s so upset, but he doesn’t.

 

He has no idea if Derek’s about to have a panic attack, or if this _is_ his panic attack, or what. He knows that different people handle them different ways, but the fact that even Derek’s panic is mostly stiff and controlled makes his stomach roil.

 

“Is there something I can do?” he asks.

 

Derek mumbles something incoherent.

 

“Er, sorry, what?”

 

“Talk.”

 

“Talk?”

 

“Just- I don’t- Talk. Please.”

 

The 'please' hurts, too, and Stiles just wants to get Derek the hell out of here. 

 

A distraction, though. Stiles can do that. 

 

“Uh, okay,” he says. “Right, sure. What do you want me to talk about?”

 

Derek shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut again.

 

“Anything.”

 

“Okay,” Stiles says. “Good. Uhhh… Alright. I’ll tell you about Scott, if that’s cool?” Derek nods. “Okay, cool. So like three weeks ago Scott and I went to the movies, right? And we were super pumped, we were gonna go see this action flick, Crash and Burn 3, which was probably gonna be just as terrible as it sounds, but y’know. Guys. Cars. Explosions. It was gonna be awesome. So we get to the theater, buy tickets, go sit down. And like, there’s a bunch of other people there, everyone from excited thirteen-year-olds to like, _biker dudes_. And yeah, they play the previews and whatever, and the movie comes on, except it’s not Crash and Burn 3. It’s actually the polar opposite of Crash and Burn 3. I don’t even know what it was called, but they’re playing this movie for five-year-olds. And we’re all just kinda sitting there like, _Ummmm… are we in the wrong theater…?_ And then obviously we kinda realize they screwed up, and they’re projecting the wrong movie. And we’re like, y’know, that sucks, but whatever. We’ll just go tell someone and they’ll fix it. Except then, this dude in the back goes ‘Hey! Do you think this means they’re playing Crash and Burn for a bunch of little kids?’ and we’re all like… _holy shit._ So you’ve got like a theater full of guys like stampeding out to stop a movie theater from scarring a bunch of little kids for life—like, the first scene is two helicopters colliding in a fiery crash, it wouldn’t’ve been pretty—because even the biker dudes care about little kindergartners, apparently, and we totally scare the shit out of this poor college kid working there, because he’s got a bunch of frantic guys rushing right at him. Anyway, turns out th-”

 

The door opens again, cutting him off.

 

Chris enters, carrying a box, and a short man in a lab coat follows him in.

 

Again, Derek opens his eyes upon hearing the door, and Stiles is beyond relieved to see he’s got the blue under control.

 

“Everything alright?” Chris asks.

 

It’s hard not to notice the trembling, or the panicked look Derek’s still wearing, but he seems the tiniest bit better than before.

 

“It’s all good,” Stiles says, with a laugh that sounds a little too forced. “He’s just kinda nervous.”

 

“Just nervous?” Chris asks, raising an eyebrow.

 

And, yeah, Derek looks about ten miles past nervous.

 

Stiles nods.

 

“You’re sure this is what you want?” Chris asks. “He doesn’t seem in any condition-”

 

“Yes,” Stiles interrupts. “I’m positive.”

 

Derek swallows hard.

 

“Fine,” Chris sighs. “Policy says that any slave with more than three poor behavioral reports can’t be on facility property without being restrained somehow. We’ll have to put chains on him, and if you ever bring him back, we’ll expect him to be wearing them.”

 

“You’re going to take his collar off just to put on chains?” Stiles asks, crossing his arms.

 

“Mr. Stilinski, he doesn’t look to be in _any_ condition to be roaming free right now, let alone in a place like this. If you expect both the collar and the tracker to be removed, some precautions are necessary. Do you still want them removed?”

 

Stiles looks at Derek, who’s looking at the floor, before muttering, “Fine.”

 

“Fine,” Chris echoes. “Stand back, please.”

 

Grudgingly, Stiles obliges, moving a few feet away and sitting down in one of the chairs.

 

The man in the lab coat moves in first, kneeling in front of Derek.

 

Before Stiles can ask, Chris glances at him briefly, and says, “If the ankle bracelet is removed, there still has to be some sort of tracking device. We can’t have werewolves running free if they escape somehow. A tracking chip implanted in the abdomen is less bothersome than an ankle bracelet.”

 

Stiles guesses he’s right, considering the ankle bracelet also serves as a fucking bear trap. He doesn’t say that, though. He has a feeling if he voices most of his thoughts, he’d get into a fight pretty quickly here.

 

The doctor—at least, Stiles guesses that’s what he is—lifts Derek’s shirt. Derek’s only reaction is clenching his fists a little tighter. The man pulls some sort of scalpel, maybe, from his bag, and drags a short line over Derek’s abdomen. He takes out a small, flashing piece of metal and fixes it in a clamp, which he inserts into the cut with no warning.

 

“Stop shaking,” he mutters irritably.

 

Derek doesn’t, of course.

 

With practiced precision, the man maneuvers the chip to where he wants it, before drawing the tool back out and putting it in his bag. It must hurt, and Stiles is annoyed on Derek’s behalf. The doctor takes out a bandage and presses it over the wound, which Stiles guesses is just so as not to get blood on his shirt, considering Derek will heal in a minute or two.

 

The man looks at Chris, who nods, and he picks up his bag and heads back out the door.

 

Chris moves in front of Derek instead—which Stiles notices makes the shaking kick up considerably—and pulls handcuffs from the box. He holds them out and Derek holds out his wrists, looking away. Chris secures them, then pulls ankle shackles from the box and fixes those in place, too, before entering some insanely long code to remove the ankle bracelet.

 

While he’s working on them, he says something to Derek in a low tone that Stiles doesn’t quite catch. Stiles would ask him what it was to make sure he’s not upsetting Derek even further, but it actually seems to make Derek relax just a little bit. Huh.

 

When Chris finishes that, he pulls a key from the box and inserts it into a small hole in the side of the collar. It doesn’t open the collar itself but rather a small panel, into which he punches what must be another code. There’s a clicking sound, and the collar easily comes away in Chris’ hands. He drops it in the box along with the key.

 

Derek’s hand twitches, like he wants to touch his throat, but he doesn’t.

 

Stiles frowns a little. He had sort of been looking forward to seeing Derek be happy about having his collar taken off. It must be infinitely disappointing for Derek, who’s just back in chains again anyway. Stiles vows to take them off as soon as he can.

 

“That’s that,” Chris says. “Is that all?”

 

Stiles nods, wanting to get Derek out of here as fast as possible.

 

Chris stands, brushing imaginary dirt from his pants.

 

“You can sign out with the receptionist at the front desk. Have a good day Mr. Stilinski,” he says. After a momentary pause, he nods at Derek, too. “Derek.”

 

He walks away swiftly, out the door and back to his office before Stiles even has a chance to process the weirdness of that.

 

Whatever.

 

“Hey, you ready to go?” Stiles asks gently, biting his lip as he moves back over to Derek.

 

Derek nods, standing, and shuffles after him towards the door.

 

It takes Stiles some serious effort not to check on him over his shoulder every five seconds as they walk back down the halls.

 

The receptionist smiles just as brightly as ever as Stiles signs out, Derek still shaking behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, phew! Another longer chapter. And still... I haven't actually resolved things. I really wish I had all the time in the world so I could fit the problems and resolutions into one chapter, but y'know. Next week I'll fix everything, I promise ;) 
> 
> Anyway, I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **If any of the tags are triggering for you, this chapter has quite a few of them, so please be sure to see the end notes for warnings!**

Derek is pale by the time they reach the Jeep, and if anything, the trembling has gotten worse. As soon as they get in the car, Stiles pulls out of the parking lot, drives a block, and parks in the nearest spot.

 

“There,” he huffs, grabbing the box from the backseat and digging around for the key to the chains. “We’re off their damn property.” He looks at Derek, and his voice is softer, gentler, when he says, “Do you mind if I get those off you?”

 

Derek gives a barely-there head shake, and Stiles reaches out tentatively for his wrists. He holds the left one loosely, so Derek can pull away if he wants, and fits the key into the lock. When Stiles frees his wrist and lets it go, it drops right back into Derek’s lap, and he doesn’t bother repositioning it. He silently offers the other hand, looking straight down at his knees the entire time. He looks submissive, which hurts, but more than that he looks sad, and frustrated, and scared, and _lost_.

 

Stiles has no idea what to do about _any_ of that.

 

He frees the second wrist and that falls limp, too. Stiles bites at his lip for a moment, trying to work out how to get a good angle on the chains around Derek’s ankles.

 

“Do you-” he starts, but pauses, conflicted. “Would you rather me come around to your side to get those off,” he asks, gesturing at Derek’s feet, “or wait till we get home?”

 

He’s not totally sure that Derek’s even going to answer him, but after a few moments, Derek gives a quiet, “Now, please.”

 

There it is again. _Please_. It sounds so small and desperate, like he thinks Stiles will rescind the offer, like he won’t do anything he can to help him. Stiles wants to promise him that’s not true, to remind him that he just wants Derek to feel better, but he has no idea whether or not the repeated reassurances will only get on Derek’s nerves.

 

He gets out of the car and walks around to Derek’s side, opening the door and crouching down beside him. Derek looks up, but rather than looking over at him, he stares straight ahead out the windshield so he can only see Stiles from the corner of his eye. It’s hard not to wonder if Derek think Stiles is judging him, and Stiles’ chest aches for him. He makes quick work of the first shackle, and he has to reach in a little farther for the second one, but he gets that quick enough, too. It pops open with a small click, and Stiles thinks how significant this should be for Derek. It’s the last outward expression of his servitude, and it should feel so good to have the symbol of his oppression removed for the first time in Stiles doesn’t even _know_ how many years, but there’s no difference. Derek must have felt it come off, but he doesn’t react at all.

 

Stiles feels like there should be something to mark the occasion, because even if he hadn’t shown it much, he’s sure Derek was excited about having his collar removed, but now it’s all ruined, and he’s still not exactly sure why.

 

There’s not really much he can do, but as he stands, he murmurs, “It’s gonna be okay, Derek,” and gives his knee a quick, fleeting squeeze. Derek doesn’t jerk away, and his eyes actually flit to Stiles for a moment. He doesn’t say anything, or even nod. Just swallows. Still, it feels like he gets it. “I promise.”

 

* * *

 

Derek was planning to make it to his room, at least, before he completely broke down. Unfortunately, the panicking part of him has different ideas.  

 

As soon as the front door opens and their mingled scents hit him, he can’t take it anymore. He never thought he’d be so relieved to be back in an owner’s house, but _holy shit_. He makes it to the living room with big, stumbling steps, before he collapses. He hits his knees right in front of the couch and hears Stiles take a nervous breath—he registers absently that Stiles probably thinks he’s being submissive again, backtracking over all their progress—but he doesn’t have it in him to say he just couldn’t take standing any longer.

 

He moves so that his back is leaning against the couch, and pulls his knees up to his chest. 

 

_“You’re such a good boy, Derek. Always so good for me.”_

 

He feels himself start to take in huge gasps of breath, sharp and quick. He held this in for too long. He’s used to containing his panic, whether it be actual attacks or just everyday anxiety, because the last thing he ever needed was to show weakness in front of his owners. A lot of the time, if he held things back for long enough, he could even get past them without having an attack at all. Not today, though.

_“Your kind is dangerous, Derek. Those blue eyes of yours? No denying they’re gorgeous, sweetheart, but if you have them so young? I can only imagine what the rest of the family is like.”_

 

Everything is flooding back, bits and pieces from even the earliest days with Kate that he’s spent years forcing into that furthest corners of his mind. And all she needed to do to bring them crashing back down was to talk to him for _two minutes_. Tears well up in his eyes, and God, why is he so fucking pathetic?

 

 _“Derek, c’mon, shhh. Don’t cry. I know.” A delicate thumb swipes across his cheek. “It doesn’t have to hurt, Derek. We can still do things the easy way. Well, everything_ else _.” He chokes out another sob, and electricity rips through his body, white-hot and fiery. “Shhhh. It’s okay. You’ll learn your place, Derek.”_

 

He wraps his arms around his legs, clutching himself tightly in a useless attempt to stop shaking.

 

 _“You should be grateful. I could’ve let anyone buy you. Didn’t Mommy and Daddy ever tell you how bad some humans can be?” She caresses the side of his face, smiling softly, but there’s a cruel gleam in her eye. “Because_ my _parents were always crystal clear on how bad werewolves are. But I took you in anyway. Let you keep something familiar in your life. Why don’t you show me how grateful you are, Derek?”_

He’s vaguely aware that Stiles is gesticulating wildly, scrubbing his hands through his hair, speaking rapidly, but it all seems oddly muted and far away.

 

_“Too bad about that bitch mother of yours, hmm? And all those adorable siblings. The whole, sweet little family, almost. Such a shame you fucked up so bad.”_

 

He can feel his control slipping, and his claws come out. He’s almost grateful to have something to anchor him, and sinks them into the flesh around his knees, only vaguely ashamed at his lack of control.

 

_“I think it’s time to head to bed.” She rises from the couch and Derek leaves her feet, starting to head downstairs. “Ah-ah, Derek. My room.”_

_“Are you- I’m_ not _sleeping with you.”_

_“No?”_

_“No. Fuck o-”_

_He’s cut off by his own scream, hitting his knees as she turns up the settings on his collar._

_“What was that?” she asks, smiling innocently._

_“I said_ fuck. off. _”_

_“Well, you got the first part right.”_

_He howls as the collar reaches the highest setting._

He digs his claws in deeper, fighting desperately to regain control.

_“Derek. Bedtime. C’mon.”_

_“Yes, Master.”_

 

* * *

 

“Derek? Derek! Derek, listen to me. You’re fine. I swear to God, everything’s okay.”

 

“No, no, no, no, no, no,” Derek chants under his breath, over and over and so, so quiet. “ _No, no, no, no, no, no_ -”

 

“Derek, look at me,” Stiles tries, tentatively placing his hands over Derek’s, which are smeared with blood. “Whatever’s the matter, it’s fine now. Everything is fine.”

 

Derek looks up at the touch, eyes locking on Stiles’, shining their bright, striking blue. It’s not nearly as scary as it should be. Even in his panic, Derek’s doing his best to hold onto control, and Stiles has faith that he won’t hurt him. At least, not if he can help it.

 

“No,” Derek breathes, continuing to stare at him. His eyes are wide, pupils blown, and suddenly he’s shaking his head vigorously. “No, I- sorry, I-”

 

He jerks, as if to get up, but he’s barely off the ground before he falls back on his butt, fingers clenching through the ripped fabric of his jeans.

 

“I’m-”

 

“Okay,” Stiles promises. “You’re okay. I swear. I’m not going to hurt you. No one is going to hurt you.”

 

“I could hurt you,” Derek says, breathing raggedly. “I-”

 

He looks down at where Stiles’ hands are sitting on his, then back to Stiles.

 

“It’s alright,” Stiles says. “Look.”

 

He carefully moves both his hands to one of Derek’s. Derek watches as Stiles carefully pries his claws from his knee, one at a time. Stiles forces himself to keep a straight face as more blood pours from Derek’s leg, staining his pants and dripping down both their hands.

 

“You’re in control,” Stiles assures. He thanks every star out there that Derek _does_ seem to be in control—he’s still shaking, still looking scared, but at least he doesn’t seem ready to claw Stiles. “And you’re gonna be fine.” He pulls the rest of Derek’s fingers out and away from his knees, and is about to pull back when Derek grabs both his wrists.

 

Derek looks as surprised as Stiles feels, and his jaw works as they both stare down at their hands.

 

He doesn’t seem to know what to say, and after a few moments, Stiles stops him from trying.

 

“It’s cool. Uh, all good. No worries. If you need… whatever… I don’t- Whatever you need.”

 

Derek’s eyes flick between Stiles and his hands a few times, before he finally gives a short nod, and squeezes his eyes shut.

 

Stiles doesn’t know what this is, why Derek, who’s usually so averse to touch, wants this, but he’s not going to upset him more by pulling away. Something in the back of his mind informs him that wolves are tactile creatures, and he figures maybe werewolves are, too? Derek’s certainly never shown any need for physical contact, but maybe it helps when he’s upset? And when he’s the one who gets to initiate and control it? And hey, if it’ll help him calm down, Stiles is totally cool with- with whatever this is.

 

He watches as Derek takes slow, shuddering breaths, each a bit less shaky than the last. He’s not sure how long they sit there, Stiles whispering words of reassurance, and Derek trying to regain his composure, but it feels like ages before Derek finally opens his eyes again.

 

They’re red-rimmed and teary—though Derek quickly swipes at them—but at least they’re open.

 

“Hey,” Stiles says after a few long moments, just to break the silence. “How ya feeling?”

 

Derek ducks his head, looking embarrassed. Hell, he probably _is_ embarrassed. He never shows this side of himself, the vulnerable side, the side Stiles thought he saw the slightest glimpse of at the auction. Stiles finds himself wanting to remind Derek everything’s okay again.

 

“Hey,” Derek murmurs. “Sorry.”

 

His eyes flit towards the stairs, like he wants to make a break for it, and Stiles grips Derek’s wrists in return. He’ll let him go if he really wants, but he doesn’t want him to just flee the room and sit upstairs, alone and miserable, for the rest of the day. He _especially_ doesn’t want him to apologize.

 

“No, no way, dude. It’s totally fine. Happens to the best of us,” he says, winking, trying for lighthearted and probably missing by a mile. “It’s no biggie.”

 

He lets go of Derek, letting him make the choice to stay or go. Derek releases Stiles, too, but when he shakily gets to his feet, it’s only to plop down on the couch.

 

Stiles gets up from the floor too, and situates himself on the coffee table in front of Derek, looking at him seriously.

 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

 

* * *

 

“I mean,” Stiles continues, “you totally don’t have to. But maybe it’d be good to get it out? You seem really… y’know. Shaken up.”

 

Shaken up. Understatement of the century.

 

Derek is so far beyond shaken up that it’s actually ridiculous. Ridiculous that she can still do this to him, ridiculous that he let her, ridiculous that he’s this fucking _weak_.

 

God, he hopes a feral wolf tears Kate’s throat out someday. He wishes _he_ could tear Kate’s throat out someday.

 

He shrugs.

 

Stiles keeps his face blank, but he smells disappointed.

 

For some reason that gets to him, and before Derek can think better of it, he blurts, “I saw an old girlfriend.” Stiles’ eyes go wide, and Derek is quick to add, “Kate’s not a big deal.” God, he hadn’t really meant to call her by name—it’s been so long since he has. “Don’t worry about it.”

 

Because Stiles _would_ worry about it. Now that Derek’s thinking clearly, now that he’s away from her, he knows that Stiles really does, for whatever reason, care about him.

 

He’s about to say that everything’s really, really okay, when Stiles asks, “Kate? Kate Argent?”

 

Derek flinches—God, he’s got to get _over_ it—and Stiles quickly claps a hand over his mouth.

 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to- I just… I saw her. She came in to talk to Chris and- and yeah. Sorry.”

 

So she really did go talk to Stiles. _Shit_.

 

He’d figured it wasn’t just an empty threat, based on the way Chris had whispered ‘don’t worry, Derek. She won’t know about this’—this being his panic attack, presumably, and even though Chris had always been the nicer sibling, it was still odd for him to try to be comforting—but he’d still hoped.

 

Derek shakes his head, trying to signify that it’s okay. If he allows just the name to upset him, he’s never going to get past it. Besides. He wants to hear what she said.

 

“It’s fine. Just, she was… bad.” Wait, no, _there’s_ the understatement of the century. “She- can you- What’d she want?”

 

Stiles’ tongue flicks out, wetting his lips in a clear show of nerves.

 

“I don’t know if you really wanna…”

 

He trails off, frowning.

 

“I do,” Derek says determinedly.

 

Not knowing things is always worse.

 

“Um,” Stiles says, twiddling his fingers. “Well, she said she used to own you.”

 

Derek’s stomach churns, even though he should’ve expected as much.

 

He’s surprised, honestly, that Kate had brought up owning him personally. He thought it’d mostly been for the purpose of taunting him, that she was conniving enough to convince Stiles to sell him without ever having to bring up their past, since she ought to have known that might bother some people. People like Stiles.

 

But _fuck_ , he shouldn’t have mentioned dating her anyway. His mind is too addled right now to hold a real conversation, especially about _her_.

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yeah.”  

 

Stiles sets his elbows on his knees, letting his bloodstained hands hang limply between his legs.

 

Unspoken questions hang in the air, none of which Derek wants to answer. Funnily enough, it’s not because he doesn’t trust Stiles. Because after today, after _everything_ , he does. That’s more than he’s been able to say about any owner—and most people, really, because his trust isn’t earned easily—for a long time. Still, he doesn’t want to answer them, simply because he doesn’t know if he can bring himself to.

 

_Was she your owner first, or your girlfriend? If she was your girlfriend first, how’d she become your owner? Did you keep dating her after she bought you? How old were you? Why does she want you back so badly?_

 

And later, upon getting more information…

 

_Did you really get your whole family killed? How could you be stupid enough to reveal to a hunter that you’re a werewolf? Are you out of your mind?_

 

Logically, he knows Stiles wouldn’t say any of that, that he would never be so insensitive, but he would certainly be thinking it.

 

Still, he doesn’t want to leave Stiles completely in the dark, because not only does he seem very lost, but he seems like the kind of person you can tell things to.

 

“She was my first owner,” Derek offers, voice low.

 

Stiles nods seriously, like that’s very important information rather than a random tidbit.

 

“She was my worst one, too. And I was-” He clears his throat, casts his eyes away, and feels weak for having to. “I was her favorite.”

 

He leaves that hanging there, letting Stiles interpret it as he will. He was her favorite in every way, really; her favorite to screw and her favorite to screw with.

 

“She said she wanted to buy me back.”

 

Might as well get it out in the open.

 

“She talked to you?” Stiles asks.

 

There’s something in his voice that Derek can’t quite place, but he certainly doesn’t sound pleased.

 

“In the waiting room. She said she missed me. Wanted to buy me back. Said she could offer you a lot.” His explanation is short, stilted, but he wants to get it out. He never talks about her, and that’s probably part of the problem. “Touched my shoulder and hair and collar. Made jokes about us in bed. Shit like that. It shouldn’t have been a big deal, but…”

 

“That _bitch_ ,” Stiles huffs, cutting off any potential end to the sentence. “That- that _bitch!_ Yeah, Derek, she offered me five grand, and she was all smiles, and she said she used to own you, and I shut her the fuck down, because she seemed sketchy as hell. How _dare_ she-”

 

He doesn’t finish, just makes an aggravated noise.

 

 _Five grand instead of three,_ Derek thinks, trying not to shudder. _She really was desperate._

 

“Listen, no one’s allowed to touch you, ever. Or make jokes about shit like that, or do anything that makes you uncomfortable. You should tell me if someone does. Like, I’m _calling_ those assholes, and I’m-”

 

“Don’t.”

 

“What?”

 

“They’re not going to do anything,” Derek says. “Her father owns the place, and he’s as bad as she is. They’ll just make you go in to talk to her, and- I’ll probably have to come, and-”

 

“Okay,” Stiles agrees, voice back to low and soothing. Derek hadn’t even realized he’d gone tense again. “It’s cool. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. But just- what a _bitch_.”

 

Derek nods, because yeah, he knows the feeling.

 

They’re both silent for a while.

 

“Do you want to talk about it more?” Stiles asks quietly. “What happened, or her in general, or- or anything? Anything you need someone to talk to about. I’m all ears.”

 

Derek shrugs. Truthfully, he kind of does. But God, he’s already been so fucking weepy today, and it’s barely noon. Between having a panic attack, and grabbing Stiles’ wrists—and seriously, he still can’t believe how fucking pathetic _that_ must’ve seemed—and crying, he’s shown more than enough emotion for one day.

 

“There’s not much to tell.”

 

Not much that he could manage to tell, anyway.

 

“You don’t have to,” Stiles says, and the understanding in his voice somehow makes Derek feels worse. He _wants_ someone to tell. He _wants_ to have a fucking good owner for once. “But if you ever want to, I’m here.”

 

Derek nods.

 

If he planned on sticking around, he thinks he might even take Stiles up on that offer someday. It’d probably be good to get it out. As is, he’s going to have to leave eventually. Especially now that the Argents probably own Cora instead of the Calaveras. Derek doesn’t know if Kate would recognize her after all these years—after all, she must look incredibly different from the child she was—but he doesn’t want to take any chances of any of Kate’s pent up aggression at Derek being taken out on his little sister. He gets queasy at the thought, feeling his hands start to shake lightly again.

 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Stiles says softly, misinterpreting why Derek’s starting to freak out. “I’m not trying to push. I’m just saying if you ever feel like you need to, then I’m always ready to talk. But yeah, this has been enough for one day, huh? Why don’t you wash up,” he suggests, looking at Derek’s blood-soaked clothes and forearms. “And maybe get some rest? You can go to bed, or lay on the couch or whatever.”

 

Derek wants to say something, _tries_ to say something, but he can’t think of anything. His jaw works for a moment before he nods firmly, getting up and heading upstairs.

 

He goes to the bathroom and hears Stiles get up a few minutes later, presumably to wash the blood off his hands. Derek strips and gets in the shower, turning up the heat and pressure till it’s pelting his skin, sending beads of diluted blood rolling down his legs and arms. He brings his claws out and scrubs under them, glad to have control back when they easily slide in again. He stays there till the fog smokes up the mirror, and even longer, though he knows just a shower won’t wash away the feeling of her hands on his skin.

 

When he gets out and dries off, he notices, _really_ notices, for the first time how it feels not to wear a collar. His throat looks just the slightest bit paler in the mirror where it used to rest against his throat, and it’s nice not to have the cold, wet metal pressing against him as he towels off. It’s nice for so, so many other, more prominent reasons, but he’s too exhausted to think about it.

 

When he’s done and dressed, he considers going to bed for a midafternoon nap like Stiles suggested, but after standing in his doorway for a moment, he instead decides to grab his comforter and head downstairs. Stiles is sitting in the chair, with the TV playing on low volume as he messes around on his laptop. He looks up when Derek enters and gives him a small smile, which Derek manages to return.

 

Derek moves over to the couch and lays down, snuggling into his blanket, his head on the far side from where Stiles is sitting. He lies there for a while, trying to clear his mind, when he notices Stiles has changed clothes. Not only changed clothes, but showered, by the smell of him. He could’ve gotten rid of the blood just by washing his hands, and Derek realizes he must’ve done it to get rid of Kate’s scent. He’s stupidly grateful, and finds himself smiling tiredly into his blanket.

 

“Stiles?” he says, after a few moments.

 

“Yeah?” Stiles says, looking over at him immediately.

 

“Thank you.”

 

It doesn’t even come close to everything Derek wants to say, or to really, properly thanking him, but Stiles just gives another small, warm smile, and Derek is sure he gets it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning:** panic attacks, flashbacks, mentions of past abuse, verbal abuse, mentions of past rape, Kate Argent in general.
> 
> Oh man, this was a hard chapter to write. I _hate_ having bad things happen to my baby:(
> 
> As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh God, okay, so this has been a huge wait between chapters, and I'm really, really sorry about that. If you follow me on tumblr, you've been seeing my excuses for the lateness of this, which pretty much boil down to _oh my God, my life is so busy right now_. Regardless, I'm very sorry for the wait, and I hope you enjoy this update!

“You sure you’re cool with me going out?” Stiles asks, for the third time. 

 

Derek nods.

 

It’s been a day since the _incident_ , and Stiles has been being extra careful ever since. It’s not that Derek doesn’t appreciate it. He _does_ , more than Stiles probably even knows, but still… The longer Stiles spends being extra nice, extra cautious, the longer it’ll take Derek to put the whole thing behind him. He just wants things to go back to normal.

 

And if normal is Stiles going out with Lydia to the coffee shop, then Derek is all for it.

 

“Do you want me to pick you up something, at least?”

 

He shrugs.

 

“I’m good.”

 

“Do you like chocolate?” Stiles asks, as though Derek hadn’t spoken. “No, wait, of course you do. We ate chocolate ice cream that first night you were here.” Derek’s about to agree that yeah, he does, when Stiles frowns, adding, “Unless you just thought I wanted you to eat it? I guess I never really thought about it. Shit, dude, is that-”

 

“I like chocolate,” Derek interrupts, before Stiles can work himself into a theoretical-chocolate-induced frenzy. “Everyone likes chocolate.”

 

“Not Scott,” Stiles says automatically. “There’s something wrong with that man, I swear to God. His mom makes the best cupcakes, too. Ridiculous.” He grabs a sweater from one of the hooks by the door, pulling it on. “Anyway, the café on Third makes awesome chocolate lattes, so I’ll pick you up one.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

“No prob,” Stiles says, stepping outside. “See you in a couple hours, alright?”

 

“Alright. Bye, Stiles.”

 

“Later.”

 

* * *

 

Stiles can’t say he’s not surprised when he shows up to Koffee Kraze, only to find Jackson sitting at his and Lydia’s regular table. Lydia’s there too, of course, but this is _weird_.

 

Sure, he and Jackson are kind of friends, and he can be cool sometimes, but he’s never had much of a soft spot for Stiles. Besides, Lydia hadn’t mentioned that he’d be coming, and doesn’t he have work today?

 

“Heeeey, Lydia,” Stiles says, sitting down across from them. “Jackson.”

 

Jackson raises an eyebrow in greeting.

 

“Jackson had an interesting idea,” Lydia says, cutting right to the chase. “I’m going to go order us some drinks. Jackson, tell him.”

 

She gets up and heads over to the long line at the counter, and Stiles has the feeling this isn’t going to be one of their regular coffee dates.

 

When they’re alone, Jackson seems to study him for a minute, as if debating whether Stiles is worth his wonderful idea, before he says, “You write.”

 

“Uh… yeah.”

 

Jackson nods, frowning.

 

“I feel like that’s more my idea than yours, man,” Stiles says, laughing awkwardly to fill the silence.

 

“Lydia showed me those short stories you sent out last week. They were good.”

 

“Oh. Thanks, dude.”

 

Jackson is doing a lot more frowning than Stiles is altogether comfortable with.

 

“You just finished a novel, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, drawing out the word, unsure where he’s going with this. “So?”

 

“Listen,” Jackson says tightly, readjusting himself in his chair. “I care about Danny.”

 

Stiles blinks at the sudden change of topic.

 

“Umm....”

 

“A lot.”

 

“Yeah, uh, of course. I know. He cares about you too.”

 

Jackson’s fingers flex where they’re gripping the table, white-knuckled.

 

“I know.”

 

Stiles is very tempted to say something sarcastic just to lighten the mood a little. A  _cool, good talk_ or something, or maybe he could even just comment on how constipated Jackson looks, but this all feels oddly serious. He has no idea why, but it does. Jackson rarely seems this tense and upset, and Stiles really has no clue how to handle it.

 

“You said things were bad for Derek,” Jackson says, starting in with yet another angle. “Really bad.”

 

“Right,” Stiles agrees slowly. “Really bad. Shitty owners and crazy expectations.”

 

“That could’ve been Danny.”

 

Oh. _Oh_.

 

“Yeah, man, but it’s not. You guys are good to him.”

 

“He’s my best friend. And that could’ve been _him_.”

 

“ _Yeah_ ,” Stiles agrees uneasily. “Yeah, it could’ve. He’s lucky to have you guys.”

 

“No, he’s not,” Jackson snaps. “He shouldn’t _have_ to have us. We shouldn’t have _him_.” His brow furrows and he casts his eyes towards the table, like he hadn’t meant for it to come out so harshly. “Listen,” he says again, gaze cutting back up to Stiles after a moment. “How would you feel about writing a book on werewolves?”

 

“What?”

 

“A book on werewolves,” Jackson repeats slowly. He doesn’t sound condescending, though. More like … hesitant, actually. It’s weird. “How would you feel about writing one?”

 

“Um,” Stiles says, oh-so intelligently. “What kind of book?”

 

Jackson shrugs.

 

“A novel? An exposé? It’d be up to you. But I’ve known things are bad for a while now, and everything Lydia’s been telling me about Derek is making it worse, and so is talking to Ethan, sometimes. Somebody has to do something.”

 

“And… you think that somebody is _me?_ ”

 

Its not that he doesn't want to better Derek's situation; he definitely does. It's just that this is pretty much _completely_ out of the blue. 

 

“I think it can be."

 

“Yeeeeah,” Stiles says slowly. “Um, dude, not to, like, put my needs above everyone else’s, but until the other stories start pulling in money, I really can’t afford to sit around all day writing a novel that I’m not sure would sell. Like, that’s a _risky_ subject.”

 

“Lydia and I talked about it,” he says seriously. “She has a friend who’s a publisher, Braeden, who’s interested in werewolf rights. Lydia thinks she’d be able to convince her to publish it, and you know Lydia. If she sets her mind to something, she’s probably going to get her way. As far as the income goes,” he continues, a little more carefully now, “we would be willing to sponsor you while you write it.”

 

“Sponsor me?”

 

“Yeah. You know, help pay for living expenses while you write. You wouldn’t be taking in any income till the book is finished, and even then there’s no guarantee it’d be a success, and we can’t just ask you to drop everything to do this.”

 

Sponsoring him sounds an awful lot like a handout, which Stiles’ pride really won’t allow.

 

“Dude, I haven’t heard of people sponsoring people since, like, the renaissance.”

 

Jackson shrugs.

 

“Maybe they had the right idea.”

 

Stiles sighs, long and loud. 

 

If he agrees to this, he _is_ going to need a steady source of income, especially now that he’s got Derek to support, but this seems a little extreme.

 

“This is kind of crazy, Jackson. Like, you get that, right? Who’s going to buy a book on _werewolves_?”

 

The only time werewolves are portrayed in any kind of media tends to be in bloody movies about The War, or as doofy, useless slaves in sitcoms.

 

“Kids, probably,” Jackson says. It seems he’s thought this out pretty thoroughly. “Teenagers would be even better. They’re young enough, and mature enough, to form their own opinions. Plus, even if they have conservative parents, I doubt most of them are monitoring the kind of books their teens buy.”

 

“Okay,” Stiles says. “Okay, but say it _did_ get big. Then people would know what it’s called, and parents probably _would_ stop their kids from buying it. They could ban it in schools, even, or protest it. I mean, people are _crazy_. They don’t want to be told something they’ve been doing their whole lives is wrong.”

 

“I know.” Jackson sounds like he’s trying very hard not to sound frustrated. “But _someone_ has to do something. You don’t have to say that all slave-owners are terrible people. I mean,” he shakes his head, “that’s what _we_ are. If you make kids feel like their parents are awful people, or like werewolves hate them, they’re not gonna want to read it. But say you have a werewolf character who you make it really easy to be sympathetic for. He’s had a hard life and goes on a journey to fix things, or he befriends a nice kid who tries to help him out or some shit. Something like that. It’s not overly rebellious, not telling people to overthrow the government or something, but it sends a message.”

 

“What, werewolves are people too?” Stiles asks, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Maybe not phrased quite so cliché, but sure,” Jackson says, shrugging. “Just... Would you at least consider it?”

 

“I mean…” Stiles says. He thinks of Danny, and Ethan, and Derek. “Yeah. Yeah, sure. I’ll think it over.”

 

“Great,” Lydia says, seeming to appear out of nowhere. She smiles brightly as she sets a tray with three coffees down on the table. “Get back to us whenever you can.”

 

* * *

 

Stiles looks kind of dazed when he walks into the kitchen.

 

“Here’s this,” he says, setting a cup in front of Derek before plopping down across from him at the table. “Enjoy.”

 

Derek takes a sip of the latte, and has to admit it _is_ pretty good, if a little too sweet. Laura would’ve liked it, he thinks. The more sugar in something, the better.

 

“Are you okay?” he asks, setting the cup down in favor of his sandwich.

 

“Me?”

 

“There’s not exactly anyone else here.”

 

Stiles waves a hand at him.

 

“Um, yeah. Sorry. Kinda distracted.”

 

“By what?”

 

“Oh, it’s nothing. Don’t… don’t worry about it.”

 

Derek nods, and they sit in silence for the next few minutes.

 

Finally, Stiles’ gaze roams over to him, and he says, “What do you think of the idea of me writing a book on werewolves?”

 

Huh.

 

Of all the things Derek might’ve been expecting, that certainly wasn’t on the list.

 

“What kind of book?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

 

Stiles throws his hands in the air and lets them drop back down on the table.

 

“Hell if I know, man. It was Jackson’s idea. Which, if I may say, is pretty weird in and of itself. He wants me to write a novel with a werewolf protagonist, or like some kid who meets a werewolf and helps them out. Something to show that werewolves aren’t that different from humans.”

 

Derek could almost laugh.

 

He spent the morning watching TV, and is now sitting at a table, eating a sandwich and drinking a chocolate latte that his owner bought for him, while said owner asks Derek’s opinion on not just _anything_ , but on whether he should write a book to promote werewolves’ rights, that his other werewolf-owning friend suggested to him.

 

Life is so fucking weird.

 

“Aren’t you afraid of the backlash?” he asks.

 

Stiles is a really good guy, but Derek’s not going to let himself get his hopes up about something as big as this if Stiles hasn’t really considered it.

 

“I mean, I was saying earlier that if it ever actually got really big—and, y’know, it's not exactly like I've has a best seller so far, but let's be hypothetical—that schools might ban it or something.”

 

Derek looks at him seriously.

 

“If it ever got really big, you’d probably get death threats.”

 

Stiles looks a little startled.

 

“Yeah. Uh, wow. I guess you’re right, man. I didn’t really think about that. But I mean… whatever, right? If it starts making some money, I’ll just put a security system in place.”

 

Derek knows he’s just trying to lighten the mood, because it _is_ a serious concern, but he doesn’t exactly want to argue Stiles out of writing the book.

 

“I don’t know,” he says. “I think it’d be good if you wrote it. It could change a lot of lives.”

 

Stiles nods.

 

“I mean, I know we’re kinda getting way ahead of ourselves here, but potentially, if it were a success, then yeah. It’d be pretty cool.”

 

Derek feels a little bad, almost, that he won’t be around to see that day. It probably won’t project very well on Stiles if his slave ran away, but still. Derek’s not going to put a hold on his plans with Cora just because of this.

 

And hey. Maybe he’ll even pick himself up a copy one day, if it all works out.

 

Knowing Stiles, he has faith it will. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this couldn't be so action-packed after you guys were so patient, but the last few chapters were _really_ angsty, so I think everyone deserves a break. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed, and as always, I'd love to hear your thoughts on things!
> 
> EDIT: OH MY GOD I'M LAUGHING/CRYING. I LITERALLY DID NOT REALIZE TODAY IS THE ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY OF THIS FIC TILL IT HAPPENED TO CATCH MY EYE IN THE STATS JUST NOW. HAPPY ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY TO THIS FIC, AND THANKS TO EVERYONE WHO'S STUCK WITH ME, AND EVERYONE WHO JOINED IN ALONG THE WAY <3


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awkward conversations aren't really Stiles' forte...

Everything is too complicated.

 

Stiles doesn’t know what to do about Jackson’s book proposal yesterday, or breaking the news of Derek’s existence to his friends and family, or the upcoming full moon.

 

Yeah, the full moon. Which is in two days. Which Stiles completely forgot was even a _thing_ until the newscaster mentioned it this morning. Which is a _really big deal._

 

He’s not exactly looking forward to reminding Derek, either. He has no idea if Derek’s able to control himself during one, which could be a serious problem. Stiles really doesn’t want to chain him up, because God, how’s _that_ for backtracking over progress, but he also doesn’t want to be mauled, so. Yeah. Things are going well.

 

* * *

 

“Hey,” Stiles says, plopping down in his chair. “Whatcha reading?”

 

Derek readjusts his book so Stiles can see the cover, eyes flicking up briefly before going back to the text. It turns out to be Stiles’ copy of Romeo and Juliet, which he probably hasn’t even touched since his freshman year of high school except to shove it into the bookcase when he moved here.

 

“You enjoying it?”

 

“They’re both idiots,” Derek says flatly, and Stiles can’t help but laugh. Derek looks up again, brow raised. “You don’t think so?”

 

“Nah,” Stiles says, waving a hand. “They totally are. They’re teenagers who got like six people killed ‘cause Romeo only thinks with his dick. Juliet had some sense, if you ask me, but I haven’t read it in long enough to judge. Why are _you_ reading it, anyway?”

 

Derek’s lips thin for the briefest moment, like he’s expecting some sort of reproach for touching something that he isn’t meant to, but when Stiles doesn’t do anything, he seems to quickly remember himself, and shrugs.

 

“I liked it in high school,” he says. “Seemed kind of romantic at the time. And my girlfriend thought it was kind of sweet, in a backwards way,” he adds, almost as an afterthought.

 

“You had a girlfriend?”

 

Stiles finds himself feeling unnaturally pleased that Derek has dated someone besides Kate. At least he’s had a chance at an actual relationship, something besides that manipulative bitch.

 

“Yeah,” Derek says, the space between his eyebrows creasing a little. “Paige.”

 

He shuts the book, keeping his thumb in his page. He looks almost wistful for a moment, before the emotion shutters from his face, leaving it blank, and Stiles decides the conversation is over.

 

“Well, I’ve got a huge selection of books. I could recommend some good ones, if you ever want. This is just the tip of the iceberg,” he says, gesturing towards the bookcase on the far wall. “The hall closet is pretty much crammed with them.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

They’re both silent for a moment, and Stiles curses himself for making things tense, but he came here to have an important conversation, and he might as well get it over with.

 

* * *

 

“So I wanted to talk to you about something,” Stiles says.

 

Normally hearing that from an owner would freak Derek out, but knowing Stiles, he probably just wants to know how Derek feels about watching a movie tonight.

 

“What’s up?”

 

“Do you know what’s coming up this week?”

 

He looks a little hesitant, and suddenly Derek thinks he knows exactly what Stiles wants to talk about. And it’s a lot less fun than a movie.

 

“Full moon, right?” Derek asks, keeping his face carefully blank. “It’s been a while since the last one.”

 

“Exactly. And, y’know, I was kind of wondering if…”

 

“If you have to restrain me.”

 

“Um, yeah,” Stiles says, looking guilty. “Not to be an asshole or anything, because if I don’t need to then that’s awesome, but it’s in two days, and I figured we’d be better off talking about it in advance.”

 

“I don’t know,” Derek sighs. He’d like to think he’s capable of controlling himself, but it’s been so long since he was even able to try. “I’m usually good about control. You’ve seen me get more…” his eyes dart away, then back, “ _upset_ than I usually let myself act, lately. But under normal circumstances, control isn’t generally a problem.” Hell, he usually doesn’t even let his eyes flash when his owners shock him. It usually either satisfied them, or pissed them off even more, and he’d learned to control that particular part of the shift quickly. “On the full moon, though… I don’t know.” Back when he was a teenager, he’d never fully mastered holding back the shift on a moon. There was one particularly memorable basketball game where Derek had nearly shifted in the empty locker room, only stopped by Peter showing up seemingly out of nowhere, encouraging him to repeat his family’s mantra till he got ahold of himself. _Alpha, Beta, Omega_ can only do so much, though, especially when it’s been so long since he’s been _able_ to shift on a full moon. “I’ve been on suppressants for years.”

 

“Suppressants?”

 

“They stop us from shifting,” Derek explains, ever-impressed with how little Stiles knows of werewolves. “They can’t keep us on them all the time, because we’d lose our minds, but once a month isn’t a problem.” Well, not a problem for his owners, anyway. The suppressants hurt like an absolute bitch, but that’s not something Stiles needs to know. “We shift in private once in a while to sate the wolf, but we take them on the full moon to hold it back. I haven’t been able to shift on a moon in years, so…” He shrugs. “I don’t really know whether I can stop it on my own anymore.”

 

“Oh,” Stiles says, frowning. “Well hey, maybe we can start with the suppressants, and slowly, like, wean you off them till you can handle it on your own? I mean, eventually it’d be nice for you to be able to actually shift on a full moon if you want to, but until we know if you can control yourself…”

 

“Yeah,” Derek agrees. The hair at the back of his neck prickles at the phantom sensation of wolfsbane burning through his system. “That sounds good.” It doesn’t matter, anyway. Stiles only wants to help, and soon enough he’s not going to have to deal with any of this anymore. “Any pharmacy should sell them.”

 

“Cool,” Stiles says. “Better safe than sorry, right?”

 

Derek nods.

 

It _is_ better to know that Stiles will be safe, because if Derek hurts him, he’ll definitely be sorry.

 

* * *

 

“You’re nervous,” Derek says matter-of-factly, as Stiles sits down at dinner.

 

Stiles looks startled, as though he hasn’t been reeking of nerves for hours. Derek had smelled a hint of it before, and assumed it would go away after their little talk earlier. And it _had_ , for a while, but now it’s back full force.

 

“I’m not nervous,” Stiles says. “I’m… apprehensive.”

 

Derek snorts, reaching across the table to grab the salt.

 

“My bad,” he says. “Not sure my nose can pick up on the subtler differences. What are you _apprehensive_ about?”

 

Stiles sighs.

 

“Well, Scott called me earlier, and we were talking about how long it’s been since we hung out. We used to chill daily, but now we’re _adults_ , with _jobs_ , and _responsibilities_ , and it’s _gross_. And one things leads to another, and suddenly you haven’t seen your best bud in weeks.”

 

Derek stares, waiting for him to get to the point.

 

“ _We--ll_ ,” Stiles says, drumming the fingers of his left hand against the table. “I was wondering if you wanted to meet him. Maybe? Possibly? Only if you want, obviously.”

 

Huh.

 

If Derek’s being honest, then no, he doesn’t particularly want to meet Scott. As a general rule, the number of humans he knows at any given time is more than enough. Still, if he’s Stiles’ best friend, he’s probably not so bad.

 

“I mean,” Stiles continues quickly. “You totally don’t have to. Like, _at all_. But he’s a really nice guy, and I think you two would get along really well, ‘cause- well, because Scott gets along with _everybody_ really well. You could put that guy in a room with an alligator and he’d befriend it. Not that I’m comparing you to an alligator. That was a terrible metaphor. Uh- how about you talk now?” he says, pressing his knuckles against his mouth.

 

Derek huffs a half-laugh.

 

“I don’t mind.”

 

“Are you sure?” Stiles asks. “Because like, you really don’t _have_ to.”

 

Derek shrugs.

 

“He’s your best friend. I’ll probably see him at some point if I’m living here, anyway.”

 

Stiles looks at him for a moment, considering, before he nods.

 

“That’s true. Okay. Alright. Thank you. I think we’re gonna have a good time.”

 

“When do you want to see him?” Derek asks.

 

“Well, that’s the thing, too. I don’t mean to spring it on you, but tomorrow’s his night off. He’s off again in a few days if you want, but like, maybe some company could be good?”

 

Derek doesn’t really see much of a difference between tonight and a few nights from now, considering it’s not like he and Stiles are doing much, anyway. Besides, even if Stiles is pretty good company, Derek is used to being around a lot more people than this, and a new face wouldn’t be so bad.

 

“Tomorrow sounds fine.”

 

“Cool,” Stiles says. “Awesome.”

 

He still looks kind of nervous.

 

“Everything okay?”

 

“Uh, well, there’s one more little thing.”

 

Derek takes a bite of mashed potatoes, waiting for him to go on.

 

“Scott doesn’t know about you yet,” Stiles says in a rush. _Oh_. “And I thought maybe it would be better if I just introduced you guys?” he continues tentatively. “Like, it would help him get used to the idea, maybe. We never really talk about it, but I know the few times slave auctions and whatever have come up, he always gets a little weird about it. I think it’s because his boss is a vet, but he also deals with werewolves, and Scott used to see them come in once in a while. He actually ended up asking not to have to work the shifts where they come in, back when we were teenagers. But yeah, anyway, I wouldn’t spring you right on him. Like, when he gets here I’ll explain and all, but I just don’t want him to be upset that I bought you and then not wanna come. Not that he would get _upset_ upset. Nothing for you to worry about. Just, y’know, he’d probably be kind of disappointed till I explain that they were weird circumstances, and it’s something I’d rather do in person. But if you’re not comfortable with that, I’ll absolutely call and explain it to him. Like, no questions asked.”

 

Derek chews slowly, considering.

 

“I don’t mind,” he says, after a moment. “He’s your best friend. I’m sure he’s a good guy.”

 

Stiles positively beams at that, and finally digs into his own food.

 

“That’s awesome, dude. I bet you guys will get along great.”

 

* * *

 

The next night, Stiles has just gotten out of the shower when the doorbell rings. Derek can hear him fumbling around in the bathroom, cursing about pants and the universe and stupidly punctual best friends under his breath.

 

“You want me to answer that?” Derek calls.

 

“Ummmm!” Stiles yells. There’s a loud thump, which Derek’s pretty sure is him knocking into something as he struggles into his clothes. “Uhh… Yeah! Yeah, sure! He’s got a key, so he’ll just barge in anyway if no one answers!”

 

“Alright,” Derek calls back.

 

“Just, um, tell him I’ll be down in a sec! I’ll explain everything!”

 

 

Derek sets down his book and heads over to the door, pulling it open.

 

There’s a man around Stiles’ age standing on the stoop, with tan skin, and dark hair and eyes. He’s smiling when the door first opens, but Derek’s rarely seen a smile drop so fast.

 

He immediately recognizes the man’s scent as that of a werewolf, and is about to be really annoyed. Stiles specifically said that none of his friends besides the Whittemores owned slaves, and even said Scott was particularly _against_ it. And yet here’s Scott’s wolf, standing right at their doorstep, while Scott’s probably off parking his fancy sports car or something.

 

Before Derek can get too pissed, though, the other wolf’s eyes go wide, his scent spiking with terror.

 

“Please don’t tell,” he says urgently. “ _Please_.”

 

Derek looks the wolf over, struggling to remember everything Stiles has told him about Scott, and he’s stunned as the realization dawns on him.

 

This isn’t Scott McCall’s werewolf.

 

This is Scott McCall. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh... _*offers Scott McCall as an apology for the long wait*?_
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy MOONday, guys! Enjoy ;)

“Seriously, dude,” Scott says, voice desperate. His eyes are so big and earnest Derek almost feels like he’s looking at a puppy. “Please, okay, I’ll do anything. _Anything_. Whatever you want, alright, but-”

 

“Stiles is going to be downstairs in a minute,” Derek cuts in, because if Scott doesn’t want Stiles to know, he’d better stop babbling about it. “It doesn’t matter if-”

 

Before he can finish, assure Scott that Stiles isn’t going to _care_ that he’s been bitten, nor is Derek going to _tell_ him, Scott silences him with a flash of red eyes.

 

Not just a werewolf. An alpha.

 

Oh, fuck.

 

Derek trails off immediately, and has to force down the instinct to whine. It’s been so long since he’s seen an alpha, let alone right in front of him, but Scott certainly isn’t _his_ alpha. He doesn’t have to submit to him.

 

“ _Listen_ ,” Derek says, regaining his voice, to Scott’s apparent horror. The brown bleeds back into his eyes, and he seems even more scared than before. “You need to calm down.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Scott says, before Derek can continue. Yes, trying to shut Derek up by asserting his dominance was annoying, but Scott is clearly panicking and Derek can’t exactly hold a grudge about it. “I’m _so_ sorry. _Please_ don’t tell. I’m sorry, I-”

 

Suddenly, the apologies stop pouring from Scott’s mouth, and his eyes somehow manage to get ever wider.

 

Derek realizes Stiles has just reached the bottom of the stairs.

 

“Hey, Scotty,” he says, as he appears behind Derek in the doorway. “Whoa. Are you alright?”

 

“I- yeah,” Scott says, gaze quickly darting back and forth between Stiles and Derek. “Fine, just,” he swallows, “started feeling sick on the ride over here.” His heart clearly skips a beat, but Derek's too awed at this entire situation to even think about saying something. “Guess you shouldn’t ride a motorcycle right after a big meal, huh?”

 

The laugh he gives is nervous and stilted, but if Stiles notices, he doesn’t comment.

 

“Dude, don’t make me call your mom,” he says, laughing too as he grabs Scott’s shoulder and yanks him inside. “You know how much she hates that bike.”

 

“Oh, yeah,” Scott says, and Derek doesn’t know what he sounds like normally, but his voice is becoming painfully strained. “She, uh- no. Not a big fan.”

 

The three of them reach the kitchen, and Derek and Scott take seats while Stiles starts rummaging through his cabinets.

 

“You sure you’re alright?” he asks. “You want some Pepto Bismol or something? I think I’ve got some around here somewhere. Or tea, maybe? It’s probably like a zillion years old, but, well… Tea doesn’t go bad, does it?”

 

“Uh, I dunno,” Scott says. He’s barely listening, his focus directed entirely on Derek. He drags a finger across his throat a few times, a pathetic, silent plea for Derek to keep his mouth shut. “I think I’ll be fine. Old tea’ll probably just make it worse.”

 

“Yeah, you’re right,” Stiles says, suddenly shutting the cabinet and whirling back around. Scott honest-to-God flinches. “Geez though, man, ya gotta take a few deep breaths or something. You look like you’re about to have an asthma attack for the first time in- what? Ten years?”

 

“Something like that,” Scott says uneasily. “I’ll, um- I’m gonna go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

 

He starts to get up before he seems to think better of leaving Derek alone to talk to Stiles, and his grip on the table tightens. He can’t exactly back out without looking any weirder, though, so he swallows hard and pushes back from his chair, and practically flees the rooms.

 

There’s a long moment of silence once he’s gone, till Stiles finally says, “Well. That was weird.”

 

“My mom never would’ve liked the idea of a motorcycle either,” Derek says, shrugging. “Anything that can make you that queasy would’ve had her worried sick.”

 

He hopes Scott is listening, so he knows Derek’s not about to rat on him. Any werewolf that would turn in another would have to be a seriously sadistic fucker.

 

“Same,” Stiles agrees. “Melissa only let him get it because once your kid’s outta college, it’s a little hard to stop him. Pretty sure it’s the only thing they’ve ever disagreed on.”

 

Derek nods, trying to look like he’s paying attention to what Stiles is saying while his mind races.

 

Derek’s honestly surprised Stiles hasn’t picked up on Scott’s situation yet, but then again, Stiles’ knowledge of werewolves has always seemed pretty limited. Besides, maybe he was just recently turned. But then, that would mean his alpha status probably wasn’t hereditary, or else Stiles might’ve mentioned the sudden death in Scott’s family when he talked about not seeing each other much lately. So had he killed someone, then? Why would anyone _want_ to be an alpha? Werewolves have it bad enough, but _alphas?_ Unless the pack bond has finally broken, Derek would be one himself if Peter wasn’t being held off in a hellish facility somewhere, more likely than not being experimented on.

 

For a moment he’s thrown back to the day of the fire, watching Laura’s eyes bleed red for the first time amongst the smoke and the ash, and moments later, Peter, face crazed and half-burned, tearing her throat out, screaming he was sorry, screaming that it’s better this way.

 

No. No one wants to be an alpha.

 

Besides, if Scott had become an alpha through innocent means like genetics, he would’ve told Stiles by now, wouldn’t he have? Then again, Derek knows exactly what it’s like to have to hide your lycanthropy, even from your very best friends. But in a weird, backwards way, Scott being a werewolf actually makes a lot of sense.

 

Scott always seems to skip out on Lydia’s dinner parties. _Because Danny would be able to smell he’s a werewolf_. He doesn’t work the shifts at the vet’s office when wolves comes in. _Because they would smell him, too_. He’s more of a meat guy when they order takeout, and he doesn’t like chocolate. _Because of course werewolves prefer meat over vegetables, and funny as the humans may find it, there are actually werewolves with a sensitivity to chocolate._ He hasn’t had an asthma attack in ten years. _Maybe he was bitten all that time ago?_ He gets very touchy whenever the subject of slavery comes up. _Well God, that one speaks for itself._

 

Scott’s back downstairs in less than two minutes, and he looks a little bit more composed. Derek can smell the bitterness of vomit on him, too faint for Stiles to be aware of, but he’s got a pretty good mask of calm pasted on.

 

It hurts to see a fellow werewolf so afraid of being outed, and even though he clearly can’t do it with Stiles in the room, Derek desperately wants to assure Scott it’s alright. It’s hard to imagine how stressful this must be—as someone who successfully kept his own wolvelihood a secret for years, he feels Scott’s pain. If it _has_ been a full ten years, then apparently he was always too afraid to tell even his best friend about being a werewolf, and now he sees that Stiles has gone and bought a slave. Derek thinks he’d be about ready to puke at this point, too.

 

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Scott says, sitting back down. Stiles waves a breezy hand at him. “So uh, who’s this?”

 

It’s Stiles’ turn to look tense.

 

“This is Derek,” he says slowly. “He’s… Well, he’s a werewolf.”

 

Scott, for his part, does a pretty good job of looking surprised.

 

“Dude, _what?_ ” Even if the new wave of surprise is being put on for Stiles’ sake, Derek’s sure the indignation in his voice is completely genuine. “What happened to thinking slavery is _wrong_?”

 

“Hey, hey,” Stiles says, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. “It’s not as bad as it sounds.”

 

“Not as bad as it sounds? Dude, you- you _bought_ a _person_. That’s _insane_. You wouldn’t-”

 

“ _Hey_ ,” Stiles says again, a little more firmly. Scott cringes for the second time, and while it probably looks like he’s sheepish at his outburst to Stiles, Derek can see it for what it really is. Fear. If they’re as good friends as Stiles always says—and from the way Stiles seems to adore the guy, Derek is sure they are—then this is downright painful to watch. “It’s not like that.”

 

“Then what’s it like?” Scott asks quietly.

 

“It’s… _complicated_.”

 

Scott closes his eyes for a brief moment. Swallows. Derek wouldn’t be terribly surprised if he threw up again, right here, right now.

 

“Complicated _how?_ ” Scott asks, on an exhale. “Because this… this isn’t you, man.”

 

Stiles opens his mouth and snaps it shut a few times, seemingly having trouble figuring out how to start his explanation.

 

“It really isn’t what it sounds like,” Derek dives in. Scott and Stiles shoot him matching looks of surprise. He’s kind of surprised himself, to be honest. He’s not sure he wants to explain all of this to some stranger, but it would probably be more believable coming from Derek himself. “And it really is complicated.”

 

“That’s what I keep hearing,” Scott murmurs.

 

“It’s true,” Derek says. “Your friend Lydia brought him to a slave auction, and Stiles saw how miserable I looked. He didn’t want me to end up in another bad home, so he bought me.”

 

“Why would you even go in the first place?” Scott asks, frowning. Under the table his leg is bouncing, quick and quiet. “You don’t exactly hang around slave auctions, and even Lydia hasn’t been to one in years.”

 

Stiles gives him a _look_.

 

“C’mon, have you met Lydia? _You_ try saying no to her. And besides, she wanted a friend for Danny. It’s not like he gets to hang out with very many people, and now that they’re both working, it must suck for him.”

 

“So Jackson’s got _another_ wolf now?”

 

“Well, yeah,” Stiles says, apparently realizing that adding more wolves to the equation probably isn’t helping his case. “But he seems to like it there, and he and Danny hit it off. Besides, you know Jackson treats Danny like a brother. I’m sure things are going well for Ethan too.”

 

Scott frowns, but doesn’t delve any further into the Whittemore situation. Instead, he turns back to Derek. “And you’re just… _okay_ with him buying you?” he asks.

 

Which, yeah. If someone had tried to convince Derek just last month that they didn’t mind living with an owner, he would’ve thought they were crazy.

 

“I’m never _excited_ about being bought,” Derek says, “but if someone had to buy me, I’m glad it was him.”

 

Scott still looks unconvinced, and a little green.

 

“Look,” Derek sighs. “I’ve been in a lot of shitty situations. A lot. Out of all the houses I’ve been to, none of them have been like this place. None of them have been an actual home.” Derek tries not to focus on the warmth that spills into Stiles’ scent, and keeps his eyes trained on Scott. “I promise it’s not a bad situation for me here.”

 

“I treat him right, Scotty,” Stiles adds earnestly. “I’m still learning, but I’m trying my best.”

 

Derek notices Stiles’ eyes flit to him for a moment, like he’s looking for some sort of confirmation, and Derek nods. Sure, they’ve had their fair share of problems, but those were mostly a result of misunderstandings on Derek’s part, and Stiles has never intentionally done anything to upset him. In fact, he’s tried to help Derek more than any human ever has.

 

“Okay?” Stiles asks hopefully, turning back to Scott.

 

“Yeah,” Scott says, looking a little more relaxed. “Yeah, sorry. I just- Never mind. As long as Derek’s happy.”

 

“I am.”

 

It’s the first time in a long time he’s been able to say that and really mean it.

 

“Alright,” Scott says, nodding. “I’m glad.”

 

He still seems nervous, but he doesn’t look quite as wary of either of them anymore, which Derek takes as a good sign.

 

They’re all quiet for a few moments, till Scott says, “So when did this happen? It hasn’t been _that_ long since I was here.”

 

“A few weeks ago,” Stiles answers. It’s funny how much longer it seems they’ve been together. “Almost a month.”

 

As though he’s suddenly realized something, that gets Scott frowning all over again.

 

“You know the full moon is tomorrow, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, neglecting to mention that he had only just realized yesterday. “That’ll be our first.”

 

“Do you have a plan?” Scott asks. He turns to Derek, and is more hesitant when he says, “Can you control yourself during one?”

 

Stiles kicks him under the table, like he’s said something horribly insensitive—especially considering how carefully Stiles had broached the topic yesterday—but Derek is pretty sure he knows Scott’s reason for asking, and it’s not because he has no faith in Derek’s capabilities.

 

“I don’t know yet,” he admits. “We’ll have to see.”

 

Scott seems equal parts concerned for Stiles and Derek’s safety.

 

“It’s _fine_ , Scott,” Stiles says calmly. “Not exactly like you have to worry about me electrocuting him or something to keep him in line.” He must assume that Scott, unlike him, already knows about the shock situation.

 

He tugs at his shirt collar with two fingers, and Derek takes the hint, pulling down the top of the red hoodie Stiles had lent him to reveal his bare throat.

 

“No collar,” Derek says, even though he knows Scott’s still going to be worried when he finds out the actual plan. _Shit_. “Stiles had it removed for me.”

 

Scott looks relieved about that, at least, so hopefully he takes the next inevitable question a little easier.

 

“So what’s the plan, then?”

 

“Suppressants,” Stiles says easily, and Derek is starting to wish he had been a little more honest about them. “See? No biggie. Everything’s under control.”

 

And, yep, that’s enough to get Scott all stressed again.

 

“ _Dude_ ,” he says. “Are you serious? You can’t put him on suppressants!”

 

Stiles is visibly startled by the outburst, apparently believing himself to have finally satisfied Scott’s concerns.

 

“Uh.... why not?”

 

“They hurt!” he says worriedly, in a way that probably seems unfounded to Stiles, but shows Derek he’s either taken the time to do research on them, or more likely, been on them himself.

 

“They do?” Stiles asks, looking at Derek in surprise. “I mean, I guess it makes sense that having to hold the shift back doesn’t feel _good_ , but-”

 

“No,” Scott interrupts, shaking his head. “They flood the system with wolfsbane. They  _hurt_. A _lot_.” Collecting himself a little, he adds, “At least that’s what I’ve heard. From Deaton. That they’re really painful to take.”

 

Stiles frowns when he looks over at Derek.

 

“Do they really?”

 

Derek folds his arms, straightening a little in his chair.

 

“It’s not that bad,” he says. “I’ll be fine.”

 

“It’s not that bad like stubbing your toe isn’t that bad, or it’s not that bad like cliff-diving without a parachute isn’t that bad?”

 

Honestly, it’s more on the cliff-diving side of the spectrum, but Stiles didn’t need to _know_ that. It’s the best option, and now he’s going to feel bad. He appreciates Scott trying to stick up for him, even when he’s worried about Derek exposing him, but this isn’t what he needed.

 

“I don’t know,” Derek sighs. “I’m used to it. I’ll be fine.”

 

Stiles props his elbows on the table and claps his hands over his ears.

 

“ _Dude_ ,” he groans. “Oh my God. I don’t want to do something that’s gonna hurt you just because you’re _used to it_. That’s, like, the worst excuse on the planet.”

 

“There aren’t a whole lot of options,” Derek points out. “This is the best one.”

 

“What about mountain ash?” Stiles asks. “That stuff is supposed to hold werewolves, right? I’m sure they make chains infused with it or something, and I know it’s not a _fun_ option, but at least it wouldn’t hurt, right? I could even just make a circle of it instead of-”

 

“No,” Derek interrupts. The night of the fire is already coming back to him, the image of smoke-thick air and burning wood and flames lapping at ankles as his family threw themselves against an invisible barrier. “No mountain ash.”

 

“But-” Stiles starts, but Derek interrupts again, clenching his fits a little too tightly.

 

“Stiles. Please.” He turns to Scott, who he knows was only trying to help. “I’ll be fine. We’re going to try to get me to the point where I don’t need to take them anymore.”

 

“Okay,” Stiles says gently, and Scott quickly nods along, knowing he hit a sore spot and looking apologetic. “Whatever you’re comfortable with. Hopefully you won’t even need them soon.” He glances over at Scott, and says, “Bro, can I talk to you for a sec?”

 

“Yeah,” Scott says, pushing his chair back as Stiles stands. He licks his lips. “Upstairs?”

 

Stiles nods. It’s the only place to really get any privacy around here.

 

“Der, can you get started on dinner?” Stiles asks. “We’ll be right back.”

 

“Sure. It’s my turn.”

 

The comment seems casual enough, but hopefully it gets Scott to realize that Stiles isn’t using Derek as his personal chef, either.

 

Derek starts shuffling around in the cabinets as Scott and Stiles head up to the top of the stairs, where they have a whispered conversation that Derek can’t help but listen in on.

 

“Dude, are you okay?” Stiles asks, voice low and worried. “You seem really freaked.”

 

Scott sighs.

 

“I don’t know,” he says. “I guess I’m just not used to this whole thing yet.”

 

“Yeah, right, I know, and I mean, I didn’t think you’d be _happy_ about it, but…”

 

“But you didn’t think I’d be this upset,” Scott finishes wearily.

 

“Err, yeah,” Stiles says. “Look, man. I know you’re against the whole slavery thing, and trust me, I’ve learned enough in the past few weeks to put me a hundred percent on your side, but... I’m me, y’know? You must know I’d never hurt someone, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Scott says, his voice small and guilty. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what my problem is.”

 

“It’s alright,” Stiles says easily. “I just wanna make sure you’re okay. I know you used to have a really tough time when hurt wolves would come into Deaton’s place. And I know it seems really backwards for me to have a wolf. A _human_. But there are such weird circumstances, and it’s… it’s the best thing for him. I care about him, Scott. A lot. He’s been through hell, and I never want him to get hurt again, especially because of me. He’s a good guy. I just want him to be happy.”

 

Derek’s throat suddenly feels too tight. That small part of him that always feels guilty about the day he’ll eventually leave here triples in size.

 

There’s silence for a moment, long and heavy, and then the distinctive sound of chests thumping and clothes rustling as one grabs the other in a hug.

 

Then, almost too quietly for even Derek to make out, Scott murmurs, “Sorry, Stiles.”

 

Even if Stiles doesn’t know it yet, even if he doesn’t for a long time, Derek knows that _sorry_ is for more than not just trusting him today.

* * *

“I’m sorry,” Scott says.

 

Stiles had gone out to the store to pick up dish soap and plastic plates--having somehow managed to run out of both at once--, after checking, in what he seemed to think was a nonchalant way, if Derek was cool being left alone with Scott. He doubts Stiles will be gone very long, so it wasn’t a surprise when Scott scooted his chair closer to Derek the second Stiles left.

 

“You’ve been doing an awful lot of apologizing today,” Derek says, taking a sip of his drink.

 

Scott squeezes his eyes shut for a second, looking physically pained.

 

“I’ve been doing an awful lot of screwing up today,” he mutters. Derek frowns at that. More like the universe has been screwing Scott over a lot today. “But… listen, man. I really am sorry. About trying to shut you up with my eyes earlier and everything. I was just afraid you were going to say something and ruin everything. And I’m not even saying you would’ve purposely tried to out me, but you could’ve just been like, ‘Hey, Stiles, you didn’t tell me your best friend is secretly a _werewolf_ ,’ and then I would’ve had a serious problem.” He seems to hesitate for a moment, but finally, his voice small and nervous, he adds, “You’re not going to tell anyone, are you?”

 

Derek sighs.

 

“Of course not,” he says, and Scott visibly slumps in relief. “Don't worry about the eyes thing, either. My mom was an alpha, and I was a mischievous kid. I’ve had my share of eyes flashed at me.” Scott offers a sheepish smile at that, and again, Derek wonders how such an innocent-looking guy became an alpha in the first place. “I have a few questions, though, if you don’t mind.”

 

“Yeah, anything,” Scott says immediately. Then he frowns a little, uncertain. “Almost anything. If you swear not to tell.”

 

“Of course not,” Derek says, heartbeat steady, and Scott nods as if to say, _shoot._

 

“How long have you been a wolf?”

 

He’s genuinely curious about how long Scott’s managed to hide this from not only Stiles, but everyone else he knows.

 

“Since I was sixteen. Nine years.”

 

“That’s a long time to keep it a secret,” Derek says, somewhat inanely. Then, since it’s only fair, he adds, “I hid it almost seventeen years before they caught me.”

 

Scott’s eyes grow wide.

 

“ _How_?”

 

Derek can’t blame him for not wanting to make the same mistake, but it’s probably common sense, to most people.

 

“Don’t let your hunter girlfriend know you’re a werewolf,” he says wryly.

 

“Oh.”  _Oh_ is about all there is to say to that. "I'm sorry."

 

“Mm. So how’d you become an alpha? And how long ago?”

 

“Nine years,” Scott says, looking away. This, apparently, is part of the conversation he didn’t want to have. Either Scott’s not going to tell him, or he’s taking so long because he is, and he knows Derek will be able to tell if he’s lying. He looks like he doesn’t want to answer, and Derek decides maybe he killed the alpha right after it bit him. Well, if Scott killed someone, no wonder he didn’t want Stiles to know. That wouldn’t be so bad, though. Only self-defense, really. Finally Scott looks Derek in the eyes, and says, “You can’t tell anyone. Ever.”

 

“I won’t,” Derek agrees solemnly.

 

What Scott says, however, isn’t even in the _realm_ of what Derek was thinking.

 

“I’m a true alpha.”

 

“A true alpha,” Derek echoes, raising an eyebrow.

 

Scott’s heartbeat doesn’t skip. He looks deadly serious.

 

“Yep.”

 

“I’ve only ever heard of those in stories,” Derek says carefully. “There’s no proof that they’re even real.”

 

Scott glances down at himself, then back to Derek.

 

“Living proof right here. Well, not proof, really, but a living specimen.” His mouth twists with bitter amusement, an expression that looks so wrong on him, at that word choice. “At least, I’m sure there’re plenty of scientists who’d love to have me as a _specimen_. Who knows where I’d end up? A lab table? A _zoo_?”

 

The thought makes Derek’s stomach churn. Modern science would probably love nothing more than to figure out how one can rise to alpha status without ever being bitten. No alphas would have to die for a new one to be made. They could have an unlimited supply. There’s no doubt in his mind that some of the rogue alphas who bite unsuspecting civilians didn’t escape by accident. Gotta keep the market going somehow, right?

 

“So why are you telling me?”

 

“I killed an alpha and took his power,” Scott says flatly. His heart skips a beat. “One of my relatives died and the power passed to me.” It skips again. He sighs. “You asked. It wouldn’t have been hard to figure out. All I can do is hope facilities don’t bother to ask when they take you. Or that they don’t have a way of finding out.”

 

He actually shudders, and Derek feels it in his gut.

 

“Is that why you haven’t told Stiles?” Derek asks. “You’re afraid someone’s going to find out?”

 

“Kind of,” Scott says, sounding guilty again. “I know he’d never tell anyone. He's practically my brother. And I know he wouldn’t treat me any differently. But all it takes is one slipup. The less people who know, the better, especially back when we were kids. And it kills me, you know? Not telling him. He deserves to know, and I trust him more than anyone. But I don’t even trust myself to keep it hidden, most of the time.” He shrugs almost helplessly. “And then I came here today, and suddenly he had a _werewolf_ , and-”

 

“And it scared you,” Derek finishes. “Understandable.”

 

Scott groans.

 

“I’m going to tell him one day,” he says firmly. “I just have to work my way up to it.”

 

“Does _anyone_ know?” Derek asks.

 

“Just my mom. And you, now. It's not exactly common for me to tell people the first time I meet them. Mom used to work the night shifts at the hospital a lot, especially during the full moon, because those nights are the worst. So I felt pretty safe shut up in my room on suppressants, and it worked for a while. But then when I became an alpha, and _that’s_ a story for another time, my control got even worse, and the suppressant dosages weren’t high enough anymore. She got off early one night and walked in on me half shifted. I’ve never seen her so scared.” His scent floods with sadness at the memory. “She was good about it though. She forbade me from telling anyone, of course. I think she would’ve accepted it eventually if I told Stiles, and he probably would’ve helped me a lot back then, but I was too scared to, anyway. And now, well…” He shrugs. “I always feel guilty for not saying something, but there’s not exactly a _right_ _time_ to let your best friend know you’re a werewolf.” He laughs, then. “Maybe that’s half of why I’m telling you all this. Gotta practice on someone, right?”

 

Scott gives a weak smile, and Derek does his best to return it. He doesn't really know why Scott's willing to spill all this to him, but he guesses it's something to do with him being the first wolf Scott's been able to talk to--to get within smelling distance of, even--in years. Derek's someone who can understand his pain, has nothing to gain from ratting on him, and doesn't really have anyone to talk to that he even _could_ spill the secret to. Besides, now that he knows Scott's a true alpha, none of this extra information would really mean anything to anyone. It's probably more a result of Scott needing to get it off his chest, and Derek being willing to listen. Stiles' surprisingly high praise of Derek must've meant something to Scott, too. It certainly meant something to Derek. 

 

The world never ceases to amaze him, he decides. Life for werewolves will probably never fail to suck.

 

“Stiles wouldn’t be mad you didn’t tell him,” Derek says suddenly. Stiles is rather intuitive, though, and almost fondly, he adds, “Maybe at himself for not realizing earlier, but not at you. He would understand. And he wouldn’t treat you differently.”

 

“Intellectually I know that,” Scott agrees. “My heart does, too.” It’s such a sad statement it almost sounds ridiculous. “Someone’s just gotta give my spine—or lack thereof—the memo.”

 

Derek smiles at him, tight but more genuinely this time, shaking his head.

 

He can see why this guy is Stiles’ best friend.

 

Before he can assure him one more time that it’ll all be alright, Stiles bursts in the front door.

 

“Paper plaaaates!” he announces. “Who’s ready for dinner? Cause Scotty, Derek cooks a _mean_ frozen stir fry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Scotty. That guy can never catch a break :/
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the 4.5k of Scott and Derek feels! I'd love to hear your thoughts ;)


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning for a very brief mention of past rape. See the end notes for further information.**

Last night had gone relatively well, as far as Stiles is concerned.

 

Sure, Scott was a little more disturbed about the whole thing than he’d hoped—maybe even to the point where Stiles was wishing he had spoken to him about it before actually introducing him to Derek—but he seemed to get over it pretty quickly, and the two of them got along well during dinner.

 

After Scott left, he texted Stiles that Derek seemed like a good guy, and before going to bed, Derek mentioned that he wouldn’t mind hanging out with Scott again sometime, so Stiles is counting the night as a win.

 

Hopefully tonight goes even better.

 

The full moon is something Stiles has never really felt much concern over before. Yeah, like all kids, he was warned to always be extra careful when walking alone at night, but Beacon Hills barely has any werewolf slaves, let alone rogue alphas. No, those stories were more to keep stupid kids from wandering the preserve in the dark. Which, of course, he and Scott had done enough times as teenagers anyway, and nothing bad had ever happened to either of them, had it?

 

So full moons weren’t ever exactly a worry of his. They were actually fun times as kids, because Melissa would work the late shift at the hospital, and Stiles’ dad at the station, and he and Scott would have sleepovers and stay up till right before the parent of whosever house it was came home. As he got older, he had no reason to keep track of full moons anymore, so this is the first one he’s really taken notice of one in ages. And God, has he taken notice.

 

Derek has been acting just like he normally does all day, but Stiles can tell he’s a little antsy. He doesn’t know if it’s because he’s wary of his first full moon in a new place, or if the moon is already taking his toll on him, but he’s not about to ask.

 

By the time they’re finished with dinner, it’s getting pretty dark, and Derek isn’t really talking much. Stiles had gone out to buy the suppressants earlier and stashed them in the medicine cabinet, and he tells Derek as much. Derek murmurs a quiet thanks before heading upstairs.

 

Stiles hears him enter the bathroom and keeps sitting at the kitchen table. He feels like something big, something monumental should happen. He’s pretty nervous, too, though he doesn’t know why. The way Derek described it sounds like a terribly anticlimactic ending to all the stress. He’ll take the pills. He’ll probably head off to bed a little early. He’ll be fine in the morning.

 

Derek’s not gone longer than thirty seconds before Stiles realizes he forgot to grab a glass of water. Dry swallowing pills is _gross_ —Stiles knows firsthand, as someone who barely used to be able swallow his Adderall even with water—and while he could shove his head in the tiny sink and get some from there, he’ll probably be glad to have a glass of water after the whole painful experience is done with.

 

Stiles gets up and grabs a cup from the cabinet, quickly filling it at the sink before following Derek upstairs. When he reaches the bathroom, however, he freezes.

 

Derek left the bathroom door open behind him, and apparently wasted no time in taking the pills. The bottle is sitting open on the toilet tank along with his discarded shirt, and he’s bent over the sink, gripping it tightly with both hands. Both _clawed_ hands. Shivers wrack his body, and Stiles stares in horror at the dark purple substance standing out starkly against his skin as it visibly traces its way up his veins. With the way he’s standing, each knob at the top of his spine is jutting out, and below that there’s a black, swirling tattoo covered in a thin sheen of sweat. He seems to realize he’s not alone for the first time, and meets Stiles’ gaze in the mirror. Derek’s face is more shifted than the rest of him; his sideburns are thick, his mouth is full of fangs, and his eyebrows are nowhere to be seen. Most notably, his eyes are blazing their bright, piercing blue. He stares back at Stiles for a moment, breathing hard, before his eyes cut away.

 

“You’re safe,” he slurs, voice distorted by both his fangs and his panting. “It’s normal.”

 

It is, in fact, one of the least normal things Stiles has seen in his entire life.

 

He nods firmly though, before he realizes Derek still isn’t looking at him.

 

“Okay,” he croaks. “I just- Okay.”

 

He should leave. Intellectually, he’s aware of that. Derek presumably left the door open because he wanted space or air or something, and assumed Stiles wasn’t a big enough idiot to follow a werewolf who’s about to be in immense pain into close quarters. Derek doesn’t want him here, and Stiles has the distinct feeling in his gut that he’s seeing something he isn’t meant to have seen. Which he _is,_ of course.

 

It’s like he’s frozen, though. The human instinct to look at terrible things—highway car crashes, gory accidents—has kicked in, and it’s like he can’t _not_ watch. Besides, he feels wrong leaving now. Part of him knows that Derek must want his privacy, but another, smaller but obstinate part is insisting he might somehow make Derek think he’s disgusted with him. Which his horrified staring has probably already done, anyway.

 

Out of nowhere, Derek makes a particularly pained, strangled noise, hunching further over the sink. Stiles finds himself jolting forwards before he thinks better of it. The water sloshes in the glass, sounding incredibly loud in the overwrought silence, and he knows he can’t leave Derek alone at this point.

 

Derek’s bent so low that only the top half of his face is visible in the mirror now, but it’s scrunched up in pain. Suddenly, his fingers start to flex—twitch?—and his claws retract. His breathing, while still heavy, settles into a steadier rhythm. The whole thing ends very quickly. With one breath, his protruding brow recedes; with the next, so does the extra hair. He straightens a little, and the fangs have already gone. There’s blood on his bottom lip, and he swipes it away with his tongue. When he finally opens his eyes, the blue slowly fades out of them till they return to their normal greenish brown. He catches Stiles’ eye again for a moment before he hangs his head. He stays grasping the sink till his breathing has returned to mostly normal, only the occasional ragged sound escaping him.

 

All the while, Stiles stares.

 

Finally, in one fluid motion, Derek pushes off the counter and turns around, letting the back of his legs flop against it instead. He stares at Stiles wearily, as though waiting for some sort of explanation.

 

Suddenly _, I didn’t think you’d want to dry swallow the pills_ doesn’t sound so intelligent.

 

“I didn’t think you’d want to dry swallow the pills,” Stiles says.

 

Excellent.

 

Derek glances down at the glass in his hand, then back to Stiles, and raises an eyebrow.

 

Stiles squirms.

 

“So uh… are you okay?” he asks.

 

Derek folds his arms, and whether it’s because he’s annoyed or because he doesn’t like standing there with his bare chest is hard to say.

 

“Fine,” he says. He still sounds kind of like he just ran a mile. “I’m gonna go sit down for a few minutes.”

 

“Right, sure,” Stiles says, nodding vigorously.

 

Derek just stares at him for a moment, and Stiles realizes he’s still standing in the doorway. Shit.

 

He takes a big step to the side and thrusts the water towards Derek. Derek glances down at the glass one more time, but takes it as he steps into the hall, and downs it in three huge gulps. He wipes his mouth on his forearm, not caring that it leaves his skin shining, and walks the few steps to his room. He nods once at Stiles, then closes the door behind him. Stiles hears him flick out the light and flop down onto his bed, so he heads downstairs, finally giving him some privacy.

 

* * *

 

It’s nice, Derek thinks, to be able to just lay down and relax afterwards.

 

There’s no dishes to do. No work to do. No fucking to do.

 

That’s something Kate had liked, and Jennifer, too. Derek never saw where the thrill came from, considering he wasn’t even shifted, but he wasn’t in any position to point it out.

 

He lays in bed, limbs splayed out at random, and just allows himself to breathe. The wolfsbane that felt like fire in his veins only minutes ago has subsided to a low, constant ache. It’s bearable. By force of habit he tests the drug, trying to unsheathe his claws, but his fingernails stay trim and blunt. Good.

 

He doesn’t know how long he lies there, whether it’s ten minutes or twenty or an hour, before there’s a careful, light knock on his door.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Uh, I-”

 

“You can come in,” Derek amends.

 

“Right,” Stiles says, opening the door. “Hi.”

 

Derek props himself up on an elbow, but otherwise doesn’t move. He feels a little drowsy, but he doubts Stiles will mind.

 

“Hey.”

 

“I thought maybe you wanted your shirt,” Stiles says, raising the fabric he has clutched in one hand. “And I wanted to see if you needed anything.”

 

“Thanks,” Derek says. “Here.”

 

He sticks up a hand and Stiles tosses it to him. Derek drapes it aimlessly across his chest, not bothering to actually put it on; his skin already feels too tight and hot, and Stiles doesn’t seem to be ogling his shirtless body.

 

“So… You need anything?” Stiles asks.

 

The room is dark, only lit by moonlight streaming through the window, but that plus the hall light lets him easily see how tense Stiles looks.

 

“I’m fine,” Derek says. “What’s up?”

 

“I just, uh, y’know. Wanted to say sorry. For earlier. I didn’t mean to burst in on you. Or like, creepily stare while you shifted. Or whatever other weird things I did.”

 

Derek sighs, moving to sit up against the wall, and moving his jean-clad knees in front of his chest instead.  If they’re going to have an actual conversation, he should at least cover himself a little.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “It’s fine.”

 

Mostly fine, anyway. He’s not mad that Stiles saw him shift—he was only trying to help, after all, and something so grotesque is hard to turn away from. That’s why Derek had taken the pills in front of a mirror in the first place. He was never able to watch himself take them before, and it was about as pretty as he imagined.

 

In fact, he’s more embarrassed than anything that Stiles had seen. Stiles is one of the people Derek has lost control in front of the most, and it probably only makes him seem more pathetic each time. Sure, a lot of other masters had _purposely_ made him lose control, but Stiles is the only one who consistently tries to do nice things for him, only to watch Derek’s control slip. Granted, that’s how the pills are supposed to work, they start a shift and then force it back down, but Derek doesn’t normally like to flaunt his blue eyes. He’d looked away pretty quickly, but Stiles still saw them, a glaring reminder that Derek killed an innocent person. It’s a wonder he hasn’t asked about them yet.

 

“Sorry if I scared you before,” he adds. “I should’ve warned you that the pills start a shift. I didn’t want you to think I was actually losing control.”

 

“No, no way,” Stiles says, shaking his head. “We’re good. I shouldn’t have burst in on you in the first place. Stuff like that is your business. But uh, yeah. I just wanted to apologize and say I hope you’re feeling alright. I’ll let you get some sleep now, if you want.”

 

Derek nods, and Stiles gives a half-smile, quickly backing out of the room.

 

“Goodnight,” he says, hand on the doorknob.

 

“Night,” Derek answers. Right before Stiles leaves, he finds himself impulsively adding, “Thank you.”

 

Stiles freezes, staring quizzically at him through what’s now a crack between the door and wall.

 

“For what?”

 

Derek feels awkward now—he didn’t really think Stiles would ask _why_. It just felt right to say. It’s for lots of things, really, though. The suppressants, not leering at him, making sure he's alright. Just… for everything.

 

“For a good month,” he finds himself saying. “For being a good guy.”

 

He shrugs, uncomfortably aware of how sappy and weird and random that must’ve sounded.

 

But Stiles, in typical Stiles fashion, only smiles again, warm pleasure spilling into his scent.

 

“Of course, dude. You’re a good guy, too. You deserve it.”

 

Then the door shuts, and the hall light goes out too, and the last sound Derek hears is Stiles settling in on the couch downstairs.

 

Derek falls asleep quickly, feeling more content than he has on a moon in years, and the pain doesn’t wake him once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning:** This chapter contains a brief (two lines), non-graphic mention of rape from both Kate and Jennifer, past owners of Derek. It is brash and casual, because it's just a fleeting thought Derek has, so please be warned. **Important!** As of right now, I've decided to stop giving warnings for very short mentions like these, as the story is explicitly tagged with rape/non-con and this is a big part of it, and warnings like this at the beginning of a chapter tend to be spoiler-y for the events of the rest of the chapter and set a tone that shouldn't necessarily hang over it as a whole. However, if you feel you need these warnings, don't be afraid to let me know. So far I don't think I've seen an opinion either way on them, but if you feel you're able to handle a story with non-con elements so long as you have advanced warning, I'm willing to go back to using them.
> 
> ANYWAY! As always, I hope you guys enjoyed, and I'd love to hear your thoughts :)


	23. Chapter 23

It’s Derek’s nose that wakes him.

 

The house smells strongly of breakfast, which is great, because the full moon tends to leave Derek feeling absolutely ravenous. He gets out of bed and pulls on a shirt, noting that it’s almost noon, and heads down to the kitchen.

 

“Morning,” he says, and Stiles startles.

 

“Hey, you’re up. I was gonna bring you breakfast in bed.”

 

“Oh, uh, sorry,” Derek says. “The smell woke me. You didn’t have to do that, anyway.”

 

Stiles shrugs, going back to the pan of eggs he’s frying.

 

“Wanted to. You had a rough night. But this is cool, too. I’ve gotta go out later, so breakfast together will be nice.”

 

“Out where?” Derek asks, going over to the cabinet to pull out two glasses, plates, and forks.

 

“Lydia’s house. I’m gonna meet up with that publisher friend of hers.”

 

“Are you still thinking about that werewolf book?” Derek asks, hoping it doesn’t sound too presumptuous. It’d be nice if Stiles did something to help the wolves, but he’s certainly not under any obligation to, especially with his financial situation.

 

“Yup,” Stiles says, tossing a little pepper into the pan. “She already read the manuscript of the novel I sent in, ‘cause she and Lyds are friends, so we’re gonna talk about that, and discuss the possibility of the werewolf one.”

 

“Sounds good,” Derek says, setting everything down at the table just as Stiles turns the stove off. He pulls the carafe of coffee Stiles had started from the counter, pouring some into each mug.

 

“Yup,” Stiles agrees, serving each of them some eggs, then moving to shove bread in the toaster. “We’ll see how it goes.”

 

Derek sits down at the table, and when the toast is done Stiles slides into the chair across from him, dishing a piece onto either of their plates.

 

 “You wanna come?” he asks once he’s settled. “Not to talk about the book, obviously. That’s not gonna be too much fun. But you can chill with Ethan and Danny, if you want? Lydia definitely wouldn’t mind.”

 

Derek takes a forkful of eggs, chewing slowly and chasing them down with some coffee before he answers.

 

He doesn’t have much reason to see Ethan anymore now that he’s able to talk to Isaac on his own, and he doesn’t have too much of an opinion on Danny one way or the other. Sure, he could go just to hang out, but making friends is a cause for reluctance now. He’ll just have to leave them behind eventually.

 

“Sure,” he says, setting down his cup. “If they want.”

 

“Totally,” Stiles says, smiling. “Danny’s a people person, and I’m sure Ethan would be happy to see you again. Is two o’clock good for you?”

 

“I’ll have to check my busy schedule,” Derek deadpans. “I’m a pretty popular guy.”

 

“Shut up,” Stiles laughs, nudging his shin under the table. “You know what I mean.”

 

* * *

 

“Hey,” Lydia says, adjusting her necklace as she opens the door. “Guys, this is Braeden.”

 

Behind her, a black woman in a navy pantsuit gives them a professional smile, sticking out a manicured hand when Lydia steps aside.

 

“Mr. Stilinski?”

 

“That’d be me,” Stiles says, shaking her hand. “Stiles is fine, though. Nice to meet you.”

 

“The pleasure’s mine.” She turns to Derek. “And you’re Mister...?”

 

It hits him in a weird way. The last person to refer to him as _mister_ was his sophomore biology teacher.

 

“Derek is fine,” he amends, shaking her hand, too.

 

As always lately, Derek finds himself surprised with how normal he’s being treated. This woman does want to potentially publish a book on werewolves, though, so it’s not _that_ weird.

 

“Nice to meet you both. Will you be sticking with us for the meeting?”

 

Derek appreciates that the question is directed at him, not Stiles, but he feels kind of silly answering.

 

_Uh, no, actually. I’m here to hang out with my potential friends while the adults conduct business._

 

“I wasn’t planning to,” he says, glancing over at Stiles.

 

“You know how Danny loves to have company,” Lydia explains, shooing them all into the house. “I think Derek was planning on a visit with him and Ethan.”

 

“Ah,” Braeden says, and that’s that.

 

“The boys are in the living room, same as last time,” Lydia says, pointing Derek in that direction. “I think Jackson is in there with them, if you wouldn’t mind sending him to the garden.”

 

“Sure,” Derek says, feeling a little awkward as he heads down the hall, glad to have the feeling of eyes off his back once he turns the corner. He reaches the living room apparently unheard, and knocks against the open doorframe. “Uh, hey.”

 

“Hey, dude,” Danny says, dimples flashing when he smiles. If Derek’s not mistaken, Ethan’s watching that smile a bit intently. “Good to see you again.”

 

Suddenly everyone’s standing and Derek’s swept up in a bro hug, first from Danny, then from Ethan. Jackson punches him lightly on the arm instead.

 

“Lydia wants you,” Derek tells him. Jackson seems like a pretty good guy, but that doesn’t stop Derek from feeling weird around him. “They’re out in the garden.”

 

“Oh, joy,” Jackson says flatly. “Business. See you guys around.”

 

“Try to sound _less_ like it was your idea!” Danny calls after him.

 

Once he’s gone, Danny flops back onto the couch, and Ethan settles on the cushion next to him. There’s a third one free, the place where Jackson was sitting, but after staring at it for a moment Derek takes up one of the several overstuffed armchairs instead.

 

This, Derek realizes, isn’t something he’s had to do in a long time. Normally he and the other slaves would bond over a mutual hatred of whatever owner they were under. But actually making friends? Based on something other than taking someone’s pain after a beating, or slipping his food to someone’s child? There was always Isaac, Erica, and Boyd, of course, but _they_ had all befriended _him_. Danny and Ethan have each other; they don’t really need Derek. He feels silly and out of place, all the sudden, like it’s the first day of high school again and he’s trying to fit in.

 

Thankfully, Danny either doesn’t sense this awkwardness or decides he’s going to steamroll right over it, because he kicks his feet up on the coffee table—something Derek would never even dream of doing—and says, “So what’s up, man?”

 

“Not much.” Derek shrugs. “You?”

 

“Excited the Dodgers won last night. Even more excited they crushed the Mets, since it’ll make Stiles mad.”

 

He grins, and yeah, Ethan is definitely into that.

 

“You like sports?” Danny continues. “Ethan doesn’t really, and I need someone to root with besides Jackson.”

 

“I used to be,” Derek says. “Haven’t really gotten to watch in a while.”

 

“You should let Stiles know,” Danny says. “He loves baseball, and I’m sure he’d be more than willing to update you on stats and shit.”

 

“You ever play sports?” Ethan asks. “You’re a pretty big guy.”

 

“Back in high school,” Derek says. And God, those were the days. Being the star, having girls fawn over him, soaking up the attention, having everything be so incredibly _simple_. He has to wonder what they all thought after his family was exposed as werewolves. “Lacrosse and basketball.”

 

“Really, lacrosse?” Danny asks. “Huh. Jackson used to play in high school, too. And so did Stiles, actually.”

 

Derek tries to picture Stiles playing lacrosse, with his flailing limbs and overeager self, and can’t help but laugh.

 

“Jax says he was mostly a bench-warmer,” Danny says, in a mock whisper. “He did make an important shot in a championship game once, though. And anyway, who needs to be good at sports when you’re gonna be some bigshot author, huh?”

 

* * *

 

“I’m really sorry,” Braeden says. “You write very well, Stiles. It’s just not really the kind of book we’re looking for right now.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Stiles’ head hurts.

 

It’s not the kind of book they’re looking for right now. As if fantasy isn’t the hottest thing on the market.

 

“There’s _so_ many of them, and by the time we get it into production, the genre will probably already be starting to fade out,” Braeden continues. Her voice is all business, the tone of someone who turns down hundreds of people a month. “People are looking for something hot, new, _different_. It was good, but it wasn’t… groundbreaking.”

 

Lots of books aren’t groundbreaking. They make a decent amount of money and then their minimal success falls away, but at least the authors get to support themselves for a while.

 

“Oh,” he says again.

 

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

 

“I’m not saying you’re not a good writer,” Braeden says. “It’s just hard in this market.”

 

“Right, yeah. I know.”

 

The weight of another failure is crushing, and Stiles blows out a slow, deep breath, trying to push past it. He thinks of his high school guidance counselor, who carefully suggested to him many, many times that writing isn’t a viable career. Maybe Mrs. Withers wasn’t as big a bitch as he’d thought.

 

Braeden looks edgily at Lydia, and Stiles almost feels bad. She probably doesn’t have to do this is person too often.

 

“It’s not so bad, Stiles,” Lydia says, calm and pragmatic as always. Sure, it’s not _her_ whose life is falling apart. “She’s got better news.”

 

“Right,” Braeden agrees. “I really like the idea for the werewolf book. I’d prefer a novel over an exposé—though of course, that’d be the underlying point. It’s something that surprisingly few people have touched on, and certainly not in such a controversial way. My cousin was bitten when he was three, and I was brought up with the idea that werewolves are people, too. It’s always amazed me how little support there was for them, so I’m plenty interested in this.”

 

“It’s not going to work,” Stiles says flatly. Suddenly, he’s certain of that. “Not for me.”

 

Braeden and Lydia exchange a worried glance.

 

“Just because one book didn’t work out doesn’t mean it’s the end of the world, Stiles,” Lydia says matter-of-factly. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

 

“It’s not one book, it’s two. Two that took a _long_ time to write. Two that were almost good enough, but couldn’t quite make it. What makes you think a third would be any better?”

 

“Third time’s the charm,” Jackson suggests, and Stiles gives him a look.

 

“Listen, you’ve had plenty of short stories published,” Lydia says. “Braeden’s even publishing the ones you just submitted, so don’t act like you can’t write. The first book was the _first book_ , and this one just didn’t come at the right time. But you could start a whole new _field_ , Stiles. Werewolf literature? Come on.”

 

Stiles sighs. He’d really rather not have this conversation in front of Braeden.

 

“Can I talk to you for a second?” he asks, already standing.

 

“Fine,” Lydia says, getting up and heading over to the deck of the pool, leaving Braeden to sit with Jackson under the patio umbrella. She settles down in a lawn chair, adjusting her pink sundress over her primly crossed legs. “Let’s talk.”

 

* * *

 

“You wanna go to town?” Danny asks suddenly.

 

Derek blinks.

 

“That’s a good idea,” Ethan says. “It’s really nice out.”

 

They both turn to look at Derek.

 

“Uh…” he says intelligently. “Town?”

 

“Yeah,” Danny says, already standing. “Do you wanna go? Or we at least need to get out of this room and crack a few windows. I feel all cooped up in here.”

 

 “How far?” Derek asks, uncertain.

 

“The main avenue is a couple blocks that way.” He points. “We don’t really have to _do_ anything, but I feel like a walk, if you’re up for it.”

 

“Uh, sure,” Derek says, seeing no other option. “Yeah.”

 

“Awesome,” Danny says. “I could use some fresh air.”

 

And then he’s walking out of the room and down the hall, Ethan trailing closely behind, and it takes till they reach the front door before Derek manages a stilted, “Wait.”

 

Danny stops where he is, perched on one foot, picking the knot out of a shoe he’s trying to get on the other.

 

“What?”

 

“Uh, Stiles,” Derek says. He feels like a four-year-old. “I should ask him.”

 

“Oh, don’t worry. It’ll be cool,” Danny says, an easy smile taking over his face. “Stiles won’t mind.”

 

Intellectually, Derek knows that’s probably true. Stiles has never expressly forbid Derek from leaving the house without his permission, but it’s not something Derek’s ever done before. He hasn’t even left the house alone _with_ Stiles’ permission, and especially hasn’t left someone else’s.

 

Ethan seems to pick up on his distress, because he says, “Eh, I think I might’ve left my sandals in the yard anyway, we might as well swing by. You get that quadruple knot out, and we’ll be back in a second.”

 

Danny doesn’t push the issue, thankfully, and Derek is irrationally grateful.

 

“Jackson?” Ethan asks, sliding the glass door open when they reach the back of the house. “Stiles around?”

 

“He’s talking to Lydia about something,” Jackson says, jerking a thumb across the yard. “What’s up?”

 

“Derek just wanted to let him know we’re going to town,” Ethan says. “That cool?”

 

“Sure,” Jackson says easily. He waves a hand at Derek. “I’ll let him know.”

 

Derek glances at Stiles, who seems to be very wrapped up in his conversation.

 

“It’s fine, man,” Jackson reiterates. “I’ll tell him I said so. You’re good to go.”

 

Derek hesitates for only a moment before he nods, mustering up a half-smile before he ducks back inside.

 

“All good,” Ethan says. He stops in a closet halfway back to the foyer and pulls out his shoes. Derek’s sure he knew they were there all along. “And we’ll be back soon, anyway.”

 

* * *

 

Once they’ve walked a few blocks, Derek finds it hard to feel anything but _good_.

 

Jackson and Lydia live in a more upscale part of town than Stiles, and the lawns are perfectly manicured. There are flowers everywhere, the air smells amazing, and a number of houses have pink cherry blossom trees, completing the look of a verifiable paradise. More amazing than that, though, is that he’s walking down the street with two other werewolves and _no_ owners. Stiles is great, but the sense of freedom this brings him is… incredible. One day, on the other side of the country, he and Cora will take walks down streets just like this, smelling the trees in the summer air and being able to just _relax_.

 

“Nice, huh?” Danny says, when Derek takes an audible inhale.

 

Derek laughs, unable to find it in himself to be embarrassed.  

 

“It’s great.”

 

“Thought you’d like it,” he says, sounding pleased. “Ethan and I go for walks around here pretty often.”

 

They continue on in relative silence, once in a while making easy small talk, but mostly it’s just a pleasant quiet.

 

Once they hit the avenue there are more people milling about, and at one point a woman carrying shopping bags in both hands bumps shoulders with Derek as she passes.

 

The woman whips around and he’s about to apologize, dredge up some lame excuse about where his owner is, when she gives him a sheepish smile.

 

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “These narrow sidewalks are such a pain, aren’t they?”

 

It takes Derek a moment to register what, exactly, is going on.

 

This woman has no idea he’s a werewolf. Why would she? He’s not wearing an ankle bracelet or collar, and neither are Ethan and Danny. For all intents and purposes, he looks just like any other guy walking down the street. God, it feels good.

 

“It’s fine,” he manages. “Don’t worry about it.”

 

He didn’t really answer her question, but she flashes him another smile anyway—even bats her eyelashes a bit, and Derek remembers just how prominent his biceps look in this shirt—before she hurries along with her groceries.

 

“Dude, could you have looked more stunned?” Ethan asks, nudging Derek with his elbow and laughing.

 

“That was… new,” he says.

 

“It’s nice not having people know, huh?” Danny asks. “Wanna feel extra cool?”

 

And then he’s bearing left into a pizzeria, Derek and Ethan following along behind him.

 

“Daniel!” the old man behind the register calls in a thick Italian accent, sounding very pleased to see him. “How’s it’s going today?”

 

“Things are good, Sal,” Danny says, leaning against the counter. “How’re the grandkids?”

 

“Oh, excellent! Just wonderful, Daniel. I’ll tell them you say hello.” Danny nods at that. “What can I get for you boys?”

 

“Two cheese slices for me,” Danny says. He raises an eyebrow at Ethan, who says, “Same here,” and then at Derek.

 

“Oh,” Derek says, frowning. “I don’t, uh…” Before he can point out that he doesn’t have any money, didn’t know they’d be doing anything like this, Danny pulls out his wallet—an actual leather wallet, and Derek can see quite a few twenties inside—and lays some money on the counter.

 

“Same for him,” Danny says, looking pointedly at Derek. “That good?”

 

“Sure,” Derek says. Then, a little awkwardly, “Thanks.”

 

“Thank Jackson,” Danny says breezily. “Not like I’m the big businessman.”

 

The guy behind the counter doesn’t seem at all disturbed by this exchange. He makes change and passes it back to Danny, who drops the quarters in the tip jar and puts the bills back in the wallet.

 

Danny leads them all to a booth in the back corner, where Sal brings their food a few minutes later.

 

“Does he know we’re, uhh...?” Derek asks in a low voice once he’s gone. He seems to be finishing sentences like that a lot, today.

 

“Nah,” Danny says, taking a huge bite of his first slice. “If you don’t look the part, no one has any reason to assume you are.”

 

“Good life advice right there,” Ethan says, wiping a stray bit of sauce off Danny’s cheek.

 

Danny rolls his eyes, but both their scents flood with a little embarrassment, and their mutual pining is pretty amusing.

 

The rest of lunch goes well, and the conversation comes easier after a while. By the time they’ve finished, Stiles has texted Danny—who also has a _phone_ —to tell Derek it’s “totally cool that he went out”, and Derek’s feeling better than he has in a while.

 

* * *

 

“You know I can’t afford another failure,” Stiles says bluntly. “Like literally, monetarily, cannot afford.”

 

“You can if you let us help you out,” Lydia says, like it’s just that simple. Like his pride isn’t a thing. Which, at this point, it barely is.

 

“You can’t just pay me for no reason,” Stiles hisses. They don’t really need to be whispering, but they kind of are anyway. At least the nearby rosebushes won’t know about his financial situation. “That’s ridiculous.”

 

“It’s not a handout, Stiles,” she says. “We’d be supporting you because you’re doing something for us.”

 

“It’s not really for you,” Stiles says. “Maybe it’s Jackson’s idea, but it’s not some personal favor you should pay me for.”

 

“We’re not paying you to write the book. That’s the publisher’s job. We’re paying you because you’re doing something we both very much want, at a cost to you. You’ve taken on supporting an entire nother person recently. If you want to keep writing, you’re going to need a way to support yourselves.”

 

“Right, sure, yeah, but I could get a real _job_. That pays me on an actual _schedule_. With definite money coming in, instead of spending months on something and just hoping for the best.”

 

“You wouldn’t have time to write if you were working a nine-to-five,” Lydia points out.

 

“So? Maybe I shouldn’t be writing if it’s going like this. And anyway, I’d be _lucky_ to get a nine-to-five. My English degree’ll probably let me get a job at a grocery store before a _solid_ job. And even at a grocery store, at least me and Derek would have definitive money to survive on.”

 

“It’ll be hard to support two people on that kind of salary,” Lydia says. “And sure, if you _really_ want to quit writing, go get a degree in education and become an English professor at BHU or something. But writing is something you love. Braeden _wants_ to publish this book. Do you know how rare it is to have a publisher wanting you to write something instead of the other way around? She _likes_ your writing. I like it, Stiles, and you can say it’s not worth it all you want, but it’s _good_. So just… consider it.”

 

Stiles drags a hand over his face.

 

“I don’t know, Lyds.”

 

“Think of all the wolves you could help.”

 

“Unless it flops.”

 

“If it flops, it flops. You take some student loans, you get the degree, you work part-time somewhere in the meantime, and you sort things out. But what if it works? What if it means just one werewolf has a better life because of it? Isn’t that worth it?”

 

“You’re gonna give me a migraine.”

 

“You’re giving _me_ a migraine. You love writing. This is a cause you care about. You’ve got a publisher on board. Jackson and I are more than willing to sponsor because we care, too. It just makes sense.”

 

He sighs, closing his eyes for a moment to collect his thoughts.

 

“I’m paying you guys back.”

 

“Does that mean what I think it means?”

 

“If you think it means I’m probably making the craziest decision of my life.”

 

“Great!” she says, clapping her hands together as she stands, and pulling him in for a hug. “It’s gonna be awesome, Stiles. I promise.”

 

“I’m holding you to that,” he grumbles. “If it seems like it’s gonna bomb, I’ll dedicate it to you. _For the lovely Lydia Martin, from whom one should never, ever take life advice_.”

 

She shrugs, still smiling delightedly.

 

“At least I’m lovely.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decisions, decisions...
> 
> But yay Stiles! And yay Derek! Yays all around :P


	24. Chapter 24

Two days later, Stiles still has no idea how Lydia convinced him to do this.

 

He’s been sitting at the table for hours with a Word document pulled up, and aside from a scarce few bullets and lots of scattered questions marks, he’s pretty much got nothing.

 

“Trying to drill a hole to China?” Derek asks with feigned nonchalance, entering the kitchen and rummaging through one of the cabinets.

 

“Wha-?”

 

Derek smirks, quickly turning his head away.

 

“You’ve been tapping your foot nonstop for twenty minutes.”

 

Stiles looks down at his right leg, which is indeed vigorously tapping.

 

“Sorry.” He makes himself stop. “Just a habit when I’m stressed.”

 

“Wasn’t really a problem,” Derek says, sitting down across from him with a bag of cookies that Stiles knows taste more like dust than chocolate. “But maybe you need to take a break.”

 

“No breaks,” Stiles says. He hovers his fingers over the keyboard, wiggling them for a moment as though they’ll magically land on the right keys and words will start to flow. No such luck. “Lyds and Jackson are paying me, so time is money and money is time.”

 

“They’re not paying you to melt your own brain.”

 

“Yeah, yeah. Just hide my Adderall, or I might down the whole bottle just so I can get something done here.”

 

Derek rolls his eyes.

 

“What do you have so far?”

 

Stiles turns the laptop towards him.

**Werewolf Book**

  * Novel
  * Title:
  * Find name for main character
  * Told from werewolf’s pov or human’s????
  * Allen is a nice name
  * Remember to ask lyds for braedens phone #
  * Maybe there’s an escaped werewolf and a kid runs into him – somehow realizes he’s a wolf – helps him make a life for himself??
  * Idk wtf
  * Female werewolf or male?
  * Ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhtgrfvbwr4



 

“Well,” Derek says, turning the computer back around. “I can see why you wouldn’t want to take a break from this state of hyperproductivity.”

 

Stiles folds his arms on the table and shoves his head into them, groaning.

 

“Writing is _hard_.”

 

“Is this all you’ve done all day?”

 

“I’ve mainly been doing research,” Stiles says, voice muffled. “I have like seventeen Google tabs open. I don’t know anything about werewolves. Or teenagers. Or _writing_.”

 

Derek laughs, and Stiles glares at him from between his arms.

 

“You’re putting too much pressure on yourself,” he says. “I don’t know anything about teenagers anymore, and I was never much of a writer, but I can probably help you with information on werewolves. If you want it to be accurate, I’m more honest than the internet.”

 

“Really?” Stiles asks, lifting his head. “I don’t wanna bother you.”

 

Derek shrugs.

 

“As long as you’re not waking me up at two in the morning because you’ve had a stroke of Shakespearean genius.”

 

“Deal,” Stiles says. “Definitely deal. There’s no point in writing this if it’s not gonna be as accurate as possible. I don’t just want people to be entertained, I want them to really _get it_. And they can’t get it if I don’t even get it.”

 

“Makes sense,” Derek agrees. “But for now you need a break.”

 

“Can a break include you telling me things about werewolves while eating lunch?”

 

“ _I’m_ eating cookies,” Derek says, shaking the bag. “ _You_ can do whatever you want.”

 

* * *

 

When Stiles says, “We’ll just do basic stuff for now, but you don’t ever have to answer anything you don’t want to,” Derek can’t pretend he’s not glad. He agreed to this, yes, but he doesn’t know how deep he’s comfortable with Stiles digging just yet.

 

“So how strong are you guys?”

 

“Very,” Derek says. “Those of us who work out are stronger, obviously, but we’re all naturally very strong.”

 

“Could you lift, like, a car?”

 

Derek raises an eyebrow.

 

“Are you planning on having someone lift a car?”

 

“Well no, but c’mon, give me some idea here.”

 

“It’d be hard to get an angle on it, but yeah,” Derek says. “If we really wanted to, sure.”

 

“Dude, that’s so cool! How ‘bout a bus?”

 

“Under what circumstances would you need to lift a bus?”

 

“I dunno. What if there was a baby trapped under it?”

 

“I’d crawl under the bus and _get it_.”

 

“What if it was under the tire?”

 

“Then it’d be dead. This is why you need a break.”

 

Stiles huffs.

 

“Fine. Okay, how strong are you aside from lifting things? Like, break this pencil.”

 

He rolls his pencil across the table.

 

“Second graders can break pencils, Stiles.”

 

“Yeah, but I wanna see you do it. I need to compare the effort.”

 

Derek highly doubts he _needs_ to, but he picks up the pencil anyway and snaps it between three fingers, sending the top half flying across the kitchen, barely moving a muscle.

 

“How about this?” Stiles asks, wiping off his spoon.

 

“You want me to _break_ your spoon?”

 

“Just bend it.”

 

Derek rolls his eyes, but he’s kind of amused at how fascinating Stiles finds his strength.

 

He holds the spoon in his fist and uses his thumb to bend it at a ninety-degree angle, then bends it back.

 

“It’s only a spoon. We can bend and tear steel if we need to.”

 

That’s really common knowledge, and Derek is pretty sure that he’s really only doing this because it’s entertaining, but Stiles seems genuinely interested, and he never makes Derek feel objectified. Plus, he _did_ suggest they take a rest.

 

Before Stiles can ask him to karate chop the kitchen table, though, he adds, “Okay, yes, we’re very strong. What else?”

 

“How fast are you guys?”

 

“Never tested it with a speedometer,” Derek says. “If we’re _really_ going? About twice as fast as the fastest humans, but it depends.”

 

“So about ten times faster than me. Got it.”

 

“I heard you were on the lacrosse team in high school,” Derek points out. “That’s a lot of running.”

 

“I was on cross country too,” Stiles says. “But running is _gross_. Who told you that, anyway?”

 

“Danny. I mentioned I used to play, too.”

 

“Should’ve known you were a total jock, with those muscles,” Stiles laughs. “Bet you had a lot of luck with the ladies.”

 

Derek has, in fact, had less luck with the ladies than almost anyone else on the planet. Stiles even knows about Kate, but obviously—and thankfully, really—it slipped his mind.

 

He just shrugs.

 

“More than me, anyway,” Stiles says. “I had a crush on Lydia from third grade through, like, twelfth.”

 

“Lydia Martin?”

 

“The one and only. Dunno why she still wants to be friends with me after my years of creeping, but hey, awesome. I laid off as we got older, and we’ve been good friends for a long time. And good decision on her part, anyway. Can you imagine her ending up living here with her expensive tastes?”

 

“Money isn’t everything,” Derek says, shrugging.

 

“That’s what people who have it say.”

 

“Because I’m so rich?”

 

“Well not _you_ , but still. Money is great. I think there should be a tax that goes directly to my bank account every time someone says that.” He seems to get a little embarrassed then, and rubs a hand against the back of his neck. “Whatever, I guess. But uh, anyway... Can you do a backflip?”

 

“I’m _not_ showing you.”

 

“Spoilsport.”

 

* * *

 

“Paulson residence, Slave 02641 speaking. Master and Mistress Paulson are not present at the moment, but I can take a message. Who may I say is calling?” 

 

“This is Derek Hale of the Stilinski residence. I’m sure the Paulsons are excellent conversationalists, but I’d rather talk to you if you’re free.”

 

“Oh, alright, I’ll hold,” Isaac says. There’s a tick of excitement in his voice, but there must be someone else in the room with him, because he muffles the receiver, clearly speaking to another person. “Hey, do you think you can go check on Angela for me? I’ve got a bank on the line, but I was planning to make sure she’s alright…Yeah, I’ll switch…She was still in the basement last time I saw her…Sure, man…Alright, tell her I said I’ll come see her later…Thank you.”

 

There’s the sound of a door opening and closing, and then Isaac is presumably alone.

 

“What was that?” Derek asks.

 

“I needed him out of the room. And Mr. P shocked one of the kids for the first time today before he left the house, and she’s been sitting downstairs crying ever since.”

 

“Fuck.”

 

“Basically. We’re taking turns getting her chores done, trying to make sure someone’s down there with her, etcetera.”

 

“Shouldn’t you be there then? I can call back some other day, it’s not important.”

 

“Nah, I’ll go down later when Alex was supposed to. I’m on mopping and phone duty at the moment anyway, and there’s only so much I can do at once.”

 

“Alright,” Derek says, frowning. “How old is she?”

 

“Only twelve,” Isaac sighs. “Told you these people are assholes. She accidentally let breakfast burn this morning, but shit, _c’mon_. I promised I’d teach her how to work the kitchen better this week. You should’ve heard her howling though, man. Who the fuck shocks kids?”

 

Isaac’s father was rather keen on shocking him as a kid, of course, but that doesn’t come up.

 

“People are assholes,” Derek says flatly. He was pretty young himself when everything with Kate started, but that doesn’t need to be brought up, either. “Was anyone there to take her pain?”

 

“Yeah, her dad’s here, actually. And God, he was _pissed_. I mean… _shit_. _I_ was scared, and I’m not even the one he was mad at. But Paulson shocked him right into submission too. I think that was almost worse for her. And then, because he’s an award-winning _asshole_ , he brought David, the dad, to work with him, so he couldn’t even be here with his kid. They get home soon, and we’re gonna take over his chores too so they can be together. So yeah, it’s been awful around here today, I’ve kind of felt like puking all day. Preferably on Paulson’s new two-hundred dollar shoes. But,” he says, and Derek can picture him shrugging. “What’re ya gonna do?”

 

“Nothing,” Derek says. He thinks of Cora, so young at the time of the fire, at the time she was made a slave, and his skin crawls. “Nothing you can do.”

 

“Right,” Isaac agrees. “But _this_ is getting depressing, so uh, what’s up?”

 

“Nothing important,” Derek says again. “I just wanted to talk for a few minutes if you have the time.”

 

“Aw, someone miss me?” Isaac teases.

 

“I weep every moment we’re apart.”

 

“It’s the only sensible thing to do,” he agrees. “Well I’ve got a couple minutes to spare, sure. How’re things going with that owner of yours? He still a giant pushover?”

 

“Honestly? He’s kind of amazing, Isaac.”

 

“Amazing…ly awful?”

 

Derek huffs a laugh.

 

“Just amazing. No one I’ve ever been under even comes close to Stiles. He treats me just like any other person. He makes me food. He lets me watch TV. He lets me make friends. He lets me leave the house on my own. It’s as close to being a normal person as I’ve gotten in a long time.”

 

“They turning you over to the dark side?” Isaac asks, a strong note of skepticism in his voice. “You did hear yourself start all those sentences with _he lets me,_ right? Not to be an asshole, but like him or not, he still owns you.”

 

“Believe me, I still hate every past owner with a passion, but he’s not like most people.” He’s very aware that he didn’t used to think Kate was like most people either, and that Isaac just wants to make sure he’s safe, but Derek knows beyond any shadow of a doubt that Stiles is her polar opposite. “He treats me like an equal. We’re kind of… friends? I guess?”

 

He doesn't know if Stiles would quite use that word, but knowing him, it wouldn't be much of a surprise. 

 

“Alright, man,” Isaac says. “Just making sure you don’t let your judgement get clouded. Humans are naturally inclined to see us as at least a little inferior, but… Hey, if it’s a good deal for you there, I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Unless he tries to take the best friend position. _Then_ I’m gonna have to fight him.”

 

“Don’t worry, I’d never let anyone replace Boyd.”

 

“Oh, that’s _cold_ ,” Isaac says, and Derek laughs. “But hey, jerk, did he ever end up getting your collar removed?”

 

“He did, actually,” Derek says, brushing his fingers over the bare skin at his throat. “It feels great.”

 

“Must be nice,” Isaac says, sounding wistful. He’s had his collar since he was even younger than Derek. “You still got that hunk of metal on your leg?”

 

“That’s gone, too. They put a tracking chip in my stomach,” Isaac makes a grossed out noise, “so it’s not like getting out of here will be a breeze, but still. It’s not like I can’t get it out if I need to.”

 

“You sure about that?”

 

“I hope so, anyway. I’d rather not think about how deeply buried it is till I need to.”

 

“Fair,” Isaac says. “So uh, I’ve kinda of some bad news, speaking of the facility. I wasn’t sure if I should tell you, but I heard the Paulsons talking, and uh… The Argents? They bought out the Calaveras’ facilities all over northern California, including the one by you. They uh… they own all those wolves now. I’m sorry, man.”

 

“I already know,” Derek sighs. “Don’t worry about it.”

 

“Really? How’d you hear that? I thought Stiles didn’t keep up with all that stuff.”

 

Derek lets out a long, slow breath.

 

“One guess who was there when I had my collar taken off.”

 

“No way.”

 

“Not just her. Chris, too. And she mentioned Gerard.”

 

“You _talked_ to her?”

 

Isaac sounds scandalized.

 

“She tried to buy me back.”

 

“Dude.”

 

“Offered Stiles over three times what he paid.”

 

“ _Dude_.”

 

“And he turned her down, just because she seemed skeevy.”

 

“Fuckin- _dude_ ,” Isaac says. “Okay. Okay, shit. I take it back. I think I like this Stiles guy.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Well uh… I’m sorry, man. That must’ve been unimaginably shitty. You okay?”

 

“It was a while ago,” Derek says. “I’m trying not to think about it.”

 

“Right, sure,” Isaac agrees. “Well anyway, I don’t think she’d recognize Cora after all this time, but just in case, we really need to make sure we get all this taken care of. I haven’t heard anything new, but I think it’s about time to start planning things, right?”

 

“I’ve been working on it for a while,” Derek says. “There’s so many things that could go wrong.”

 

“Well yeah, man, otherwise we would’ve left a lot of shitholes a lot earlier. But Stiles doesn’t even have a security system or anything, right? And you can get the tracker out when the time comes, and without a collar on, no one’ll even suspect you. Have you worked out any plans on transport? Or are you gonna take _being on the run_ super literally? And how are you actually going to get her from the auction? Have Stiles buy her?”

 

“We’ll probably have to go on foot for a while, but that’s the least of our problems. And Stiles doesn’t have that kind of money,” Derek sighs. “And even if he did, he would be way too suspicious of me suddenly wanting him to buy a slave.”

 

“He can’t afford her? Man, he got you, and he turned down money from Argent. Doesn’t he have a job?”

 

“He writes. He’s actually planning a book on werewolves, but that’s a story for another time. He’s barely making ends meet as it is, and even if I convinced him I needed some company or something, he wouldn’t have the cash to buy her.”

 

“Well what’s the plan then? You’ve gotta work something out.”

 

“He’s got some rich friends, Ethan’s owners, who don’t have their wolves wear collars either,” Derek says, “so one way would be to somehow convince them to pick her up. Ethan might be able to help me out there. Otherwise… this is pretty awful, but Stiles’ best friend is a werewolf, and Stiles doesn’t know.”

 

“Seriously?”

 

“He’s been keeping it a secret for years, and I’m the only one besides his mom who’s ever found out. So uh… if worse comes to worst, I can see about getting him in on it.”

 

“You think he’d go behind Stiles’ back to help you out? I mean, he might feel bad as a fellow wolf, but still.”

 

“I know he’s a _werewolf_ , Isaac,” and a true alpha, at that, “so I think he would if I asked.”

 

“Oh, c’mon,” Isaac says. “You of all people would never threaten to spill someone’s secret, Der.”

 

“I don’t think I’d have to,” Derek says. “He might do it just because he’d think I would.”

 

Isaac exhales slowly.

 

“You’d feel terrible if you did that.”

 

“I’d feel a hell of a lot worse if I let Kate get her hands on my little sister.”

 

“Jesus,” Isaac says. “What would you do if he called your bluff?”

 

“I don’t know. Obviously I would never actually rat him out. I’d just have to deal with it, come up with some other idea. It’s not like he could tell Stiles or anything, anyway, so it wouldn’t be a big deal.”

 

“Except you’d feel like shit.”

 

“Except I’d feel like shit.”

 

They’re both silent for a moment, till Isaac says, “Well hey, listen, who says it’ll even come down to that? Worry about other things for now. There’s _plenty_ of other things to worry about.”

 

“Yeah,” Derek says. “I’ll see how things work out.”

 

“Good. But hey, it’s time something went your way, Der. Maybe the universe’ll work it all out for you.”

 

“That’d be nice,” Derek laughs. “A first, but nice.”

 

“Hey, there’s a first time for everything,” Isaac says. “But anyway, I should really get going. Hope things stay good for you, man.”

 

“Hope they get good for you,” Derek says. “Make sure that little girl is okay, alright? And make sure you stay out of trouble yourself.”

 

“Will do. Talk to you soon, Der.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That writers' block? I feel Stiles' pain. And half happiness and half angst balance each other out, don't they? ;) Hope you enjoyed, and your thoughts are always appreciated!


	25. Chapter 25

“Hey, Stiles,” Derek says, entering the kitchen. Stiles is down here practically every morning working on his book these days, and now that Derek’s finally learned to enjoy sleeping in, he’s always here first, too. “How’s it going?”

 

“Better,” Stiles says, looking genuinely happy for the first time in what seems like days. “I think maybe I’m starting to get out of this slump. I’m not gonna tell you anything till I have some solid, coherent stuff together, but I think this is my first breakthrough.”

 

“That’s great,” Derek says, offering a sincere smile. “You have breakfast yet?”

 

Stiles shakes his head, returning his gaze to his computer.

 

Derek’s not terribly surprised; Stiles has an awful habit of not eating or showering on time once he gets absorbed in his work. He’s really not sure how the man even survived on his own before, but Stiles had assured him it was typical writer stuff, and that he used to set reminders on his phone while writing his last book, before he had, and Derek quotes, “a big, werewolfy mother hen to remind me that breakfast is the most important meal of the day”. Derek is absolutely _not_ that bad about it though. Stiles is full of _lies_. He would probably make a bigger stink about it, actually—his own mom was not the kind of woman who appreciated her children skipping meals—but he knows how desperate Stiles is to get this thing over with so he can start supporting himself, so he lets it slide to an extent. It’s kind of funny to think about, honestly. Derek would’ve gladly seen any past owner starve to death on a desert island, slowly picked apart by vultures, but Stiles puts dinner off till ten or eleven a few nights in a row and suddenly he’s all worried.

 

“Eat this,” Derek says, grabbing two apples from the counter and setting one down in front of Stiles. He gets a glass and some milk out, too. “And drink something. I’m going to come down here one day and find your skeleton in one of these chairs.”

 

Stiles makes a disgruntled noise but picks up the apple and takes a monstrous bite.

 

“Happy?” he asks around the mouthful, still staring intently at the screen.

 

“Delighted,” Derek deadpans, making Stiles snort.

 

Stiles swallows rather forcefully, then glances up at Derek again.

 

“I’ll take a break around noon, or maybe one. But now I’m in the _zone_.”

 

“I’m holding you to that,” Derek says. “Twelve on the dot.” Stiles grunts again, so Derek plows on. “You mind if I go for a walk around town?”

 

That’s enough to make him look back up.

 

He blinks owlishly, apparently surprised, but then he grins.

 

“Yeah, man, for sure. Do whatcha want, no need to ask.” After a moment, he adds, “Do me a favor and try to lemme know before you go out, though. Like, not that I think you’d try to leave or anything, but I don’t wanna call your name and think you finally got tired of the whole man-glued-to-his-laptop spectacle and disappeared on me.”

 

Stiles’ heartbeat is steady when he says he doesn’t think Derek would ever try to leave him, which sends that obnoxious, guilt-ridden voice in the back of his mind off, but he ignores it.

 

“Sure,” Derek says. “Sounds good.”

 

Based on how easily they usually interact now, Derek was irrationally worried about asking Stiles to go out, but of course Stiles continued to fully endorse the _you’re a full grown adult, who am I to stop you?_ viewpoint. Going out with Ethan and Danny was one thing, but all on his own almost seemed like _too_ much freedom, even from Stiles. And, of course, he wouldn’t be unjustified in worrying about Derek just up and leaving him one day.

 

“I’ll be back in an hour or two,” which is a long time, but Stiles still doesn’t object, “to make sure you’re on that break.”

 

“Sure thing,” Stiles says. He looks like he's trying not to smile.  “Have fun, catch ya later.”

 

* * *

 

Derek heads for Lydia’s part of town as soon as he sets out.

 

He doesn’t plan on dropping by her house or anything, but while Stiles lives in a decent enough part of the neighborhood, the air is simply fresher and the flowers brighter on Lydia’s side.

 

 _Might even say the grass is greener,_ he thinks, and smirks to himself.

 

He takes things slow, enjoying the alone time, so it takes a while before he gets across town. It’s been a cool summer, and it’s almost on the verge of chilly at the moment. It’s not enough to bother him with his long sleeve shirt, though, and the apple he brought with him tastes even better in the crisp morning air.

 

He can’t actually keep track of the time out here, but he thinks it’s been about half an hour already, maybe even forty minutes. He’s been able to keep his mind pretty clear so far, just enjoying the time to himself, but it’s not long before thoughts of Cora start to creep into his mind.

 

All of this would be so much easier if he had access to a computer. He needs to know what the surrounding towns are like, how to navigate them, how much things cost these days, where he can go, a good place to move, and about a million other things. Maybe Ethan can look up some of that stuff for him, but it’s not like Derek can send him a list and make researching a full time job for him. No, he’ll just have to figure some of this stuff out as he goes, he supposes.

 

Aside from all the things he has to worry about in making their escape, he’s also worried about Cora herself. He wonders what she looks like now, if she looks just like Laura did, or more like their mother when she was younger. Cora was ten at the time of the fire, making her twenty-five now. She was an adorable kid, though Derek never would’ve admitted it at the time, and she’s probably beautiful as an adult. What that could’ve meant for her over the years scares him, though, and he finds himself hoping she didn’t grow up to be attractive.

 

His gut clenches and he shakes his head, as though he could physically clear his mind, and continues down the road. It’s too early on a weekend for very many people to be out. Those who work are already gone, and everyone else is inside, probably asleep. The few people he did run into had either walked right past him, or offered neighborly smiles before continuing on their way. Derek had considered stopping one or two of them to make a little small talk, just for the thrill of them treating him like a normal person, but he decided against it. Some weird, habitual part of him still feels like humans would be able to pick him out of a crowd as a werewolf, as though _they’re_ the ones with the super senses.

 

After another half hour or so of walking, he’s managed to fully relax, and he’s able to just enjoy his walk. That, of course, comes to an end rather quickly.

 

He’s hit the really ritzy houses, and he’s probably not even in Stiles’ neighborhood anymore when he sees it. There’s a wallet just lying on the ground, half buried in the dirt of one of the trees on the sidewalk, likely as a result of last night’s rain. He glances around, focusing his vision in every direction, but there’s no one around who seems to be looking for it. And if anyone was, it’s not like they’d be here at this exact moment, anyway. After another look around, he stoops down and picks up the wallet, brushing off the damp soil. If anyone does come by, he can always just pretend it’s his, or if it happens to be _theirs_ , that he was just checking who it belongs to.

 

It’s made of nice brown leather, and it must be pretty expensive. That exact thought it confirmed when he flips it open. There’s a literal wad of cash inside, and while he doesn’t want to take it out and count it in the middle of the street, he’s sure it must be at least a few hundred.

 

Wow.

 

There are a few credit cards inside too, but he’s not as interested in those. A slave getting busted for credit card fraud? Wouldn’t _that_ be some news story. Besides, the owner will probably cancel them as soon as he realizes the wallet’s gone.

 

Derek thinks about the police station he’d passed a while back and considers dropping the wallet off there, but he could really use the money. He and Cora are going to need at least a little cash to get themselves out of here, and he’s certainly not about to steal from a guy like Stiles, no matter how desperate he is. But one of these rich mansion-owners, who carries a few hundred bucks in their wallet at any given time? He can’t say he’s not tempted.

 

He rifles through the rest of the wallet and finds there’s also a driver’s license with a picture of a man well into his fifties, and a slave owner’s license. That gives him pause. You don't need one of those unless you own more than ten, and as he glances over the information, Derek finds the man owns _sixteen_ slaves. There’s also a few receipts: one for fast food, two from a drugstore, and one for a new, voice-controlled shock collar. Suddenly, he doesn’t feel all that bad about taking the cash. He looks around again, making sure no bored children or housewives are watching him through their windows. He slips the wallet in his back pocket and, just for good measure, turns around and heads back in the direction of the police station. He takes a roundabout route back to Stiles’ house, and halfway there drops the driver’s and slave owner’s licenses into the gutter, along with the credit cards. He slips the cash-filled wallet, which he figures is probably worth a bit all by itself, back in his pocket.

 

He continues on his zigzagging, crisscrossing course home, certain no one’s following or watching by the time he gets back.

  

* * *

 

“I ate,” Stiles says, as soon as the front door opens. Derek has to admit he’s still feeling a little on edge about the whole wallet situation, and jolts in surprise. “A nice, big bowl of soup, just to make you happy.” Stiles is sitting on the couch now, laptop on his lap. “I didn’t make you any because I didn’t know when you were getting home, but there are more cans in the cabinet. You’re a little later than you said, so I guess that’s a good thing.”

 

Derek glances at the clock, shocked to see he’d managed to put himself nearly forty-five minutes out of his way.

 

“Sorry,” he says, frowning. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

 

“Nah, it’s cool. I trust you,” Stiles says easily. “I know a little something about getting all wrapped up in my thoughts, so. ‘s’all good.”

 

“Right,” Derek says. The wallet is burning a hole in his pocket, and he’s dying to get upstairs. “I’m gonna go wash up that before I eat.”

 

“Cool,” Stiles says, and Derek has to force himself to take the stairs at a normal pace. 

 

He goes into the bathroom and locks the door just to be safe—he doesn’t need another case of Stiles barging in on him, and this might even be worse than it was on the full moon. He dumps the money onto the closed toilet lid and puts the empty wallet under the faucet. It’s probably not recommended for such expensive leather, but it already spent a while sitting in the mud, so screw it. He dries it off and sticks it back in his pocket, the picks up the cash.

 

He counts it, then counts it again. And again.

 

Eight hundred and twenty dollars.

 

Holy _shit_.

 

Nearly a grand in twenties, and all his.

 

He hasn’t held this much money at one time except maybe on a particularly fruitful birthday, and even _then_...

 

It’s an incredible amount, and yet still not enough. There’s so many things he’s going to need, and he has no idea how to start spending it. He could put it towards paying off whoever he convinces to buy Cora, maybe. Or towards supplies? They’re going to need food. Maybe some of it should go towards their first apartment? They can’t sleep on the streets for very long without fear of somehow being found out. Well, whatever. No matter what he does with it, it’s an entire eight hundred twenty dollars more than he had before.

 

He folds the money up and jams it in his pocket, hurrying into his room.

 

He looks around for somewhere to hide it, wishing for the first time that it wasn’t so bare in here. There’s the dresser, which is just too obvious, and under his mattress, but he doesn’t need Stiles deciding to change the sheets one day and finding him out.

 

He opens the closet next, and spots the leather jacket Stiles had bought him. Huh. He takes it off the hanger and unzips it, remembering that inside there’s a nearly invisible chest pocket. Perfect. Derek puts the money in the wallet and slips it all into the jacket, hanging it back inside the closet and shutting the door.

 

And, just like that, one problem is taken care of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! Mission impossible level stuff here, guys :P
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, and as always, your thoughts are appreciated!


	26. Chapter 26

Walks become nearly a daily thing for Derek after a while. He tries to keep them under two hours, but being able to get out of the house for _any_ period of time on his own is a blessing. Now that he’s being active again, he even considers restarting his exercise regime, but he doesn’t know if that would disturb Stiles too much or not.

 

In the mornings, Derek walks and Stiles works, they usually have lunch together, then Stiles gets back to work till dinner while Derek hovers around, watching TV or reading or distracting Stiles with conversation. It’s a good life.

 

It seems like a waste, almost, to throw it all away. Once he leaves, after all, there’s no coming back. Stiles may be a great guy, maybe a great friend, even, but Derek knows a thing or two about betrayal, and if things don’t work out for him and Cora, it’s not exactly like Derek can come crawling back and hole up at Stiles’ place again.

 

He finds himself wondering, as he so often does these days, what Stiles is going to think when he leaves. He’s contemplated leaving behind a note, but he has absolutely no idea what he would say. He never had much of a way with words, especially when it comes to emotion, and anything he leaves Stiles would probably sound dry and insincere. How could he possibly express all Stiles has done for him, all the ways he’s helped him, what an amazing influence he’s been on his life? And even if he could, how could he then justify leaving? But if he _doesn’t_ leave Stiles a note, Stiles will think he just ran away. Which technically Derek will have, but Stiles will think it’s his fault, that _he’s_ the problem, instead of the whole fucked up system.

 

He has to wonder, too, if Stiles would come looking for him if he just disappeared without a trace. If he’d just think Derek went on his morning walk early, or was sleeping in. How long Derek would have to be gone before Stiles would start to worry, to panic, to look for him. He wonders if Stiles would call the authorities in a well-meaning attempt to track Derek down. He wonders if he’ll be far enough out of town by the time Stiles starts his search. He wonders if he’ll question everyone they know for some sign, some hint as to why Derek left or where he would go. He wonders if Ethan will keep his mouth shut. Some vicious voice in the back of his mind wonders if Stiles will care at all, or if he’ll be a little glad to get rid of the freeloader taking up half his space, money, and time.

 

He shrugs the thought off.

 

Stiles cares about him more than almost anyone has in nearly half his lifetime.

 

* * *

 

“Do you mind if I start working out?”

 

Stiles quirks an eyebrow, taking a slow drag of his coffee.

 

“Do I mind if you _what_?”

 

“Start working out,” Derek repeats, and he looks a little embarrassed. “Around the house. I’ve been walking a lot lately, but I should really get back to my regular routine.”

 

“Regular routine?”

 

The answer he’s looking for is _no, of course, go ahead_ , but the idea of Derek doing squats in the middle of their living room is a little much for Stiles to process.

 

“Just… working out?” Derek says, shrugging uncertainly. “I don’t know for sure yet, I change things around sometimes. It’ll just be push-ups and things like that, nothing that’ll distract you from work.”

 

Stiles begs to differ there; he’s pretty sure even the idea of Derek’s muscular, sweaty self working out right in front of his nose will be enough to distract him, but the thought is fleeting and awful and _wrong_ , and he has no idea where _that_ came from, so he just nods.

 

“Yeah, man, of course. Can’t miss leg day, right?”

 

Derek doesn’t laugh, but he gives a half-smile, and says, “Thanks. It’s been a while since I was able, and I should really start up again.”

 

“Oh yeah, dude, you’re right. I wasn’t gonna say anything, but you’re really starting to lose some muscle mass there. I think you might actually have _two_ percent body fat, these days.”

 

Derek just huffs, nudging Stiles’ leg under the table.

 

* * *

 

At first, Derek stays upstairs while he works out. He confines himself to his bedroom, with the door shut and the window open, but it’s not long before he comes to Stiles, concerned that he might be making too much noise overhead.

 

Which… he is. The noise is amplified through the hardwood, all kinds of sounds that Stiles can’t even tell what they’re a result of. But Stiles can’t have him working out _downstairs_. Because Derek is… well, he’s good-looking. And Stiles will not be a terrible person, will not sit around and ogle him like one of his past owners, will not make him feel objectified in their own home. But… how is he supposed to do that with Derek down _here_? The house is pretty small and the first floor is mostly an open floorplan, and it's just not a good idea.

 

“Nah,” Stiles tells him. “It’s really not that bad.”

 

“Stiles,” Derek says flatly. Stiles wonders if he heard the lie, or if it’s just that obvious. “I don’t want to interrupt your work. The floor creaks, and I think I even heard the light fixture in the kitchen rattling yesterday.”

 

“It’s California,” Stiles says, trying for lightheartedness. “If I can deal with Earthquakes, I can deal with a little rattling. As long as you don’t have me diving for shelter, I think we’re fine.”

 

“I can stop if you want,” Derek says, clearly not convinced. “I know doing it down here might just be more distracting, but upstairs is ridiculously loud. I can go on runs instead of walks. It’d still be more exercise than I’ve gotten in a while.”

 

And well… isn’t that a rock and a hard place?

 

“No man, you definitely don’t have to stop,” Stiles says. “It’ll be fine. You can work out down here if you want. I can always put headphones in if it’s keeping me from writing. Which I doubt it will, anyway.”

 

Derek flashes a grateful smile, and that somehow makes it worth it.

 

“I’ll try not to be too loud,” he promises. “And if it does get too distracting, tell me.”

 

* * *

 

It’s too distracting.

 

And Stiles is a very, very bad person.

 

It’s not like he can’t stop himself from looking at Derek. He does have _some_ semblance of self-control. But it’s just… Pointedly _not_ looking at him also doesn’t help. He still remembers the time back in his sophomore year before he and Lydia were friends, when she had come to school in an impressively tight shirt—seriously, Stiles is all for girls wearing whatever they want, but he’s shocked to this day that no male teachers had labeled her “a distraction” and sent her home—and essentially backed Stiles against his locker, because even back then, and even at 5’3, she was still incredibly intimidating when she wanted to be. He doesn’t remember what the conversation was originally about, but he does remember how it had quickly turned into her smirking, saying something about how he was only looking in her eyes, with the kind of look like he was trying hard not to look anywhere else. And _that_ had resulted in later being _thrown_ into a locker by Jackson for “staring at his girlfriend’s chest”, which technically was the exact opposite of what Stiles was doing, but he digresses. The _point_ is that in Stiles’ experience, purposely avoiding looking at someone can be equally as bad and obvious as staring right at them.

 

It's not just how Derek looks, either. Stiles wouldn’t say he’s _turned on_ by it, he’s not that much of a creep, but there’s no denying that Derek’s occasional grunting and panting is very akin to the noises someone would make while... well…doing something _else_.

 

He doesn’t know what to do.

 

He refuses to sit there and creepily watch like the perverted owners Derek is so used to, especially when Derek trusts him so much these days. He doesn’t _see_ Derek as a slave, just as a hot guy working on increasing his hotness right in the middle of Stiles’ living room, but the fact of the matter is he _is_ a slave, and he’s used to being objectified, and Stiles will not allow himself to add to that. He doesn’t really think he could even go upstairs, though, because it would seem pretty suspicious if he left every time Derek started working out, especially because he’s expressed his dislike of writing in his bedroom before. He can’t just sit there staring at his laptop the whole time, either. His mind wanders when he writes, quickly followed by his eyes, and the view is a little too much. He’s especially freaked out because he knows that Derek can smell whatever he’s feeling, and he doesn’t know exactly what emotions that bridges out to, but attraction, or whatever one would call it, because _Stiles_ certainly has no idea what to make of this, is probably one of them. Derek never says anything, though, doesn’t act like anything is off, and Stiles hopes he continues not to notice.

 

* * *

 

Within a few days, Stiles actually starts to get used to it.

 

He tries to view it like it’s the locker room—where he had always been surrounded by a plethora of hot, muscular guys in high school. Seriously, it’s like there’s something in the water in Beacon Hills, that Stiles in somehow immune to—and that makes it a little easier to just ignore Derek.

 

Thank God for that, because a few days is also the amount of time it takes for Derek to take his shirt off. He’d asked Stiles permission for that, too, even though Derek rarely asks permission for little things anymore. Stiles is pretty sure it was more of an _are-you-comfortable-with-this-bro?_ than anything else. Stiles wasn’t even sure what he wanted, at first, when he plucked at his sweat-stained shirt and asked “you mind?”, but he’s sure his cheeks had flamed when he realized. He was shocked at first that Derek felt comfortable enough around him to do that, and that only made the shame he’d been feeling recently coil hot in his stomach. Derek’s clearly decided that Stiles isn’t interested in him, and Stiles doesn’t even know if he is (he’s so confused, maybe Derek’s just good-looking, but there are things he likes about Derek maybe a little more than normal now that he’s spending so much time thinking about him, and he’s _so confused_ ), or that he’s straight, even, and Stiles feels like he’s somehow betraying him by not speaking up. It makes sense, though, that Derek would be okay with taking his shirt off. Even for a cool summer, there’s been a heat wave this week, and buying Derek only long-sleeve shirts probably wasn’t the best idea. Maybe he’ll lend him some of his own T-shirts, if Derek wants. With the money Lydia’s supplying, Stiles can probably even take him shopping for some of his own.

 

According to his quiet count, Derek is on his 237th pushup—which seems _unnecessary_ , if you ask Stiles—and there’s a sheen of sweat all across his back. It makes the black, swirling lines of his tattoo glisten against the sunlight coming in from the window, and Stiles finds his attention not on Derek’s muscular body, but on the tattoo itself. It has three spirals branching off from a triangular center point, and he thinks he might’ve seen something like it before, though he’d never know where.

 

When Derek hits 250 he sits back on his heels, facing away from Stiles, but he glances over his shoulder at him when Stiles says, “Hey, what’s that?”

 

“What?” Derek asks, looking around the room.

 

“No, on your back,” Stiles says, which makes Derek sweep a hand up it.

 

“Sweat?” he asks, raising an eyebrow and the hand that’s now a little damp, and Stiles laughs.

 

“No, man, the tattoo,” he amends. “What’s it of?”

 

“Oh,” Derek says. He turns a little so he can face Stiles better, but so that the tattoo is still visible. “It’s a triskele.”

 

“Yeah? I think I’ve seen it somewhere before. Does it mean something?”

 

Derek shrugs.

 

“It means different things to different people,” he says. “Past, present, future. Mother, father, child.”

 

“Is that what is means to you?” Stiles asks.

 

He can see how Derek might want something to represent his family, but the past hasn’t been good for Derek for a long while, and before he met Stiles, he probably didn’t have much hope for a good present or future, either.

 

Derek stalls a moment, like he doesn’t want to say, and Stiles is about to tell him he doesn’t have to, when he sighs.

 

“Alpha, beta, omega.”

 

“Oh,” Stiles says. It sounds like it’s something personal to Derek, but he doesn’t really know what to say. “Like the status? That’s cool.”

 

Derek shrugs again, then reaches across his back to slowly trace a finger over each swirl. Stiles wonders how often he’s done it, because he manages with surprising accuracy.

 

“It’s a reminder that we can rise and fall,” he says, almost reverently. “An omega or beta can become an alpha, but betas and even alphas can fall to omega, too.”

 

“Oh,” Stiles says again.

 

“It’s not like it really matters anymore,” Derek says, brows furrowing a little. “It was something I got as a teenager. I got grounded for it, actually, but my dad thought it was pretty cool,” he adds, a fond smirk forming, but it quickly fades away. “It meant something when I had a pack, but now… Most werewolves are omegas these days, and I am, too. Rising to alpha means worse torture, and being an omega means you’re alone.”

 

They’re both silent for a moment, till Stiles says, “I think it matters. I mean… I think there’ll be packs again one day. I don’t think you guys are gonna be enslaved forever. Eventually, something like that has to change. I don’t know how long it’ll take, but… I think it’s important to have hope. One day you guys will be proud to be alphas again. Betas will have someone they can be loyal to. Omegas will be able to find new packs. You’ll be able to rise and fall and things will take their course, but in the end werewolves as a whole will stay risen.”

 

After a moment, Derek gives a tiny, warm smile.

 

“I hope so.”

 

He grabs his shirt from where it’s discarded on the floor and pulls it on, apparently ending his routine early.

 

“I’m gonna go take a shower,” he says. “Catch you for dinner.”

 

Stiles smiles back as Derek heads for the stairs.

 

As he watches him go, Stiles wonders how any of Derek’s old owners ignored this side of him. He’s good-looking, sure, but he has a good heart, too, and that’s by far the most important thing about him.

 

The small smile lingers, even once Stiles is alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So uh... this is new. This chapter makes me very nervous, so I'd appreciate your thoughts. Hope you enjoyed!


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing graphic, but warnings at the end anyway, if any of the tags might trigger you.

“Do werewolves date a lot?” Stiles asks. “Each other, I mean.”

 

Derek looks up at him, surprised. The tips of Stiles' ears look a little pink. 

 

“Why?”

 

“The book,” Stiles says. “I was thinking about giving one of the wolves a girlfriend, or a past girlfriend, but I don’t know if that happens a lot. I was trying to think of what kind of challenges that might bring about, but I figured it’d help to ask. Get some real life info, y’know? Only if you’re cool with it.”

 

“You don’t even have your laptop out,” Derek points out.

 

“I thought maybe we could just have a conversation. I mean, if there’s really anything for you to say. I can take notes on my phone if I need.”

 

“Sure,” Derek says, shrugging. He kicks his feet up on the coffee table, leaning back in the chair a little. “What’d you want to know? If we have relationships with other wolves?”

 

“Yeah, and is it common?”

 

“It happens sometimes, but it’s hard. You’ve got all the problems of a human relationship, and about a hundred more.”

 

“Right, of course. What do you think are some of the main ones?”

 

“It’s hard to get together in the first place,” Derek says. “It’s not like you can exactly ask someone on a date. Dating is just… It’s not _dating_. It’s a relationship. I’m sure it’s great if you can make it work, but it’s probably hard to get to know each other well in the beginning. It’s not like you have free time all day, either, so you can mostly only see each other at night or while doing housework.”

 

* * *

 

_“Bro, just ask her out,” Isaac laughs. “You worry too much.”_

_“I worry the perfect amount,” Boyd says, grabbing another onion and dicing it with quick, skillful precision._

_“Derek, tell him to just ask her out,” Isaac groans. “I can’t take the idea of him moping around the house for the next ten years.”_

_“I can’t take the idea of dealing with Jennifer for the next ten years, so don’t even,” Boyd says. “And I’ll be moping a lot harder if Erica rejects me, anyway. I’d rather live out the fantasy in my head, thanks.”_

_“What kind of fantasy, exactly?” Isaac asks with a shit-eating grin._

_Boyd flips him off, not even turning from the counter, and he laughs._

 

_“I don’t have time for your juvenile girl problems,” Derek tells them. He’s like a big brother to the pair of them, and with that comes its fair share of teasing. “I’m very busy.”_

_“Derek, you are_ literally _making a tower out of diced carrots,” Isaac says._

_“Not my fault neither of you finished your chores early.”_

_“Because if Jennifer walked in and saw you doing that, she wouldn’t hang your head above her fireplace as soon as you finished the new list of chores she assigned you.”_

_“It would be an honor and a privilege for that scumbag to be able to have my head over her mantle. Besides, I’ll drop dead the day_ Madame Jennifer _enters a workspace of her own volition,” Derek says, rolling a carrot towards Boyd. “Cut this, I need to finish the outer wall.”_

_“Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to play with your food?” Boyd asks, but he grudgingly takes the carrot and begins to dice._

_“I’m not playing with my food,” Derek says reasonably. “I’m playing with Jennifer’s food.”_

_“_ How _are you an adult?” Isaac asks._

_“I’m the coolest adult you know,” Derek says. If he were to look away from his castle, he’s sure Isaac would be rolling his eyes. But, hey. It's one of their rare good days, and Derek is in a good mood. Sue him.“And at least I’m not the one mooning over some girl who’s clearly in love with me.”_

_“I don’t know how to take that,” Boyd says, sliding a small pile of carrot cubes over to him. “Are you gonna add these to the soup at some point?”_

_“Are_ you _gonna ask Erica out at some point?”_

_“Ask her out where? To take the trash to the curb with me?”_

_“We could help you make her dinner or something,” Isaac says. “We’ll do it in the middle of the night, Jennifer’ll never know.”_

_“Have it next to the window in attic, call it a moonlight feast,” Derek suggests, and he and Isaac laugh._

_“Because you two are so helpful with cooking dinner, right?” Boyd grumbles._

_“Always,” Isaac says, smirking. “Incoming!”_

_He uses a spoon to catapult a handful of lentils at Derek’s castle, which is really more like four lopsided stacks of carrot pieces._

_“Whatever happens, be content with the knowledge you’ll get a girlfriend a million years before Isaac does,” Derek says, clapping Boyd on the back._

_The next round of lentils hits Derek in the face._

* * *

 

“That makes sense,” Stiles says. “I bet that’s a pain in the ass.”

 

Derek nods.

 

“It’s also hard because you want to protect each other,” he says. “Life is… hard for us, and it’s even worse to see bad things happen to someone you love.”

 

“Yeah, that was one of the things I was considering,” Stiles says. “I don’t know how you would even handle that. Like, I guess it’d be hard to protect them, since then you’d get in trouble too.”

 

* * *

 

_“Erica,” one of the newer slaves says, stepping into their quarters. “Master Matt wants to see you.”_

_She and Boyd both prop themselves up on their elbows._

_“Why?” Erica asks, frowning. “It’s so late.”_

_It is. There’s no clock in their room, they’re trained to get up with the sunrise, but it’s been dark for hours._

_This new girl is clearly on the night shift, but tonight isn’t Erica’s night._

_“I- I don’t know,” the girl says._

_Her voice is small and wavering, and her heart skips. Derek flips onto his side so he can see her, too. He recognizes her vaguely, thinks that her name might begin with a K. Kara or Kira or something like that._

_“You do,” Boyd says. Derek can’t see him, but he hears the frown in his voice. “What does he want?”_

_“He didn’t say,” the girl tells him. “He just… he said he wanted to see the pretty blonde slave. In his room.”_

_She looks away._

_Derek turns over to look at Boyd and Erica, instead. He sees Isaac is up and watching, too._

_The door closes as the girl leaves._

_“No,” Boyd says firmly._

_He’s behind Erica, the big spoon, but he’s looking down at her._

_“What do you mean, no?”_

_“No,” Boyd says again. “You’re not going up there.”_

_Like it’s just that simple. Like anyone has any choice in the matter._

_“You don’t know what he wants,” Erica says._

_But he does. And she does. And even that random girl could easily tell._

_“It’s not hard to guess.”_

_“If I don’t go right away, it’s just going to be worse.”_

_“Tell him you didn’t get the message,” Boyd says._

_“Then he’ll punish that girl.”_

_“And that’s worse than what he’s going to do to you?”_

_It comes out raw. Almost afraid._

_“You don’t…” Erica says, pausing to take a deep breath in. She smells scared, but she won't show it. “You don’t know what he wants. Maybe he just needs to give me extra instructions for tomorrow morning’s chores or something.”_

_“Erica,” Derek says, trying to sound gentle. “If this is… what we think it is. It could become a regular thing. Maybe it’s just a whim. It’s late. It might pass.”_

_“Or he might get more angry the longer I wait,” she says, jerking out of Boyd’s arms. “He might get sick of waiting for me and have some other girl dragged up there. That’s not any better.”_

_No one says anything. No one knows what to say._

_She heads for the door, turning to look at them over her shoulder as she leaves._

_“I love you,” Boyd says._

_She nods. Swallows thickly._

_“It’s probably nothing,” she insists. “But I love you, too.”_

_Derek can tell Boyd and Isaac are listening hard in the mostly silent house, and he focuses his own hearing. He still doesn’t like to think about what they heard Matt saying to Erica. At the very least, all he ever got to do was talk._

_It doesn’t last very long before Boyd is up and storming through the house. Derek and Isaac don’t have to keep their hearing focused for very long._

_Yelling, and screaming, and crashing, and the buzzing of electricity all ring through the house, the voices of Erica, Boyd, and Matt all getting into the fray. It’s hard to hear exactly what’s said in the cacophony that follows, but Matt ends up with a broken arm, and ships the whole lot he bought from the Calaveras to his friend Adrian Harris the next day, with the threat that Harris will know how to handle beasts like them._

_Derek doesn’t really mind._

_He’s with his makeshift pack, Erica is okay, and Harris isn’t much more of a dick than Matt was._

_Besides. He’s still a step up from Kate._

 

* * *

 

“Protecting someone comes at a price,” Derek agrees. “And even if you manage to start dating and things are going okay, there’s always the chance you can get traded to different owners.”

 

“Aw, man, that would be terrible,” Stiles says, frowning. “It must happen a lot though, right?”

 

“Too often.”

 

* * *

 

 _“Harris is trading us,” Erica says, bursting into their quarters. There are eight random slaves sitting around, and she waves them off when they all look up at her. “Not_ you _._ Us _. Everyone from our lot is going back.”_

_“What?” Isaac demands. “Where did you hear that?”_

_Erica looks near to tears as she flops down on the pile of blankets on the floor that serves as her bed, burrowing her way under Boyd’s arm._

_“He said it right in front of me,” she says. “I was cleaning the en suite and he was telling someone about it on the phone. Said he’s looking for something new in his life, and he’s gonna trade in the whole last lot he picked up. That’s_ us _.”_

_Boyd pulls her closer, beginning to stroke her hair._

_“Did he say when?” he asks._

_Derek can smell the panic starting to radiate off him, but he keeps his voice gentle._

_“Tomorrow,” Erica says, and her tears spill over. “All of us are going up tomorrow.”_

_She’s always so strong, and Derek hates to see her cry. He can’t imagine what it does to Boyd._

_They know how lucky they were that they were put up for sale as a set the first time, let alone that they didn’t even go to auction the second, but were just all sold together in a private trade. In a situation like this, the third time is never the charm._

_Derek exchanges a look with Isaac, who’s sitting on the floor across from them and drumming his nails against his knee, a nervous habit._

_“It’s going to be okay,” Derek tells them._

_It doesn’t feel like it’s going to be okay._

_They’re the first family he’s had in a long time_

_Derek hears Boyd, always strong and silent, pleading with Harris the next morning._

_“If you could just consider keeping us, Master... It would mean the world. I would be forever grateful.”_

_“Your gratitude doesn’t do much for me, does it?” Harris asks, sounding bored._

_“I would do anything you wanted,” Boyd said. “If you kept us, or even just sold Erica and I as a set._ Anything _.”_

_Harris just laughs._

_“You’ll do anything I want anyway, slave. Including going to auction. Alone.”_

_“But sir,” Boyd says, and this is probably the most he’s ever even spoken to Harris. “I-”_

_“I feel like we’re going in circles here. My answer is no. I took you in as a favor to Mr. Daehler, and now I’ve grown bored. What are you going to do about it, 01354? Break my arm?”_

_Derek would like to, personally, but he stays quiet and out of sight._

_“No, sir,” Boyd says solemnly. Derek is sure he doesn’t regret hurting Matt—Derek certainly wouldn’t—but Boyd is a peaceful guy, and it’s unfair that he’s now painted otherwise in his file. “I didn’t mean to bother you. My apologies.”_

_“Whatever,” Harris says flippantly. “If I were you, I’d go finish my chores. The auction’s in a couple of hours, and you probably want a minute to say goodbye to your bitch, right?”_

_Boyd doesn’t answer, of course, and Derek hears his footsteps start to recede._

_“Ah,” Harris says, making Boyd halt. “That was a direct question, wasn’t it? Do you want a few minutes to tell your bitch goodbye?”_

_Derek rolls his eyes at the pathetic, unnecessary power play._

 

 _“My girlfriend,” Boyd says. Derek hears him turn to face Harris again._ “Bitch.”

 

_He doesn’t cry out when Harris shocks him._

 

_Derek's never been more proud._

* * *

 

“Have you ever dated another wolf?”

 

“Me? No, never.”

 

“You ever try?”

 

“Nope,” Derek says. “Too much trouble. You’ll never have a chance to get married or anything, anyway. It’s just a lot of hassle.”

 

That's not the only reason, but it's a good excuse.

 

“Yeah, it sounds like it really sucks,” Stiles says, frowning. “Did you ever _want_ to?”

 

In the years after Kate, Derek was wary of any kind of relationship. Even once he started to move past that, a significant other never seemed like a good idea. The risks outweighed the rewards, in his opinion. He knows Boyd and Erica must think about each other every day, worry about each other every day. He was even wary of making good friends, for a long while there. Trusting people was hard, and the thought of losing any more people close to him was harder. Trying to shake off Isaac when they first met and were assigned sleeping spots on the floor next to each other didn't prove very successful, though, considering how badly he needed some company in his new life. And, as much as Derek doesn’t like to admit it, he was in pretty desperate need of some friends himself. He could never have imagined what a positive influence that would be on his life, and maybe one day a significant other wouldn't be so bad, either. Maybe.

 

“Not really,” Derek says. He hasn’t thought about being in a relationship for a while now. It’s just not practical. He gets lonely sometimes, sure, but being lonely by choice is infinitely better than being alone by force someday. “I’ve had friends have trouble in relationships before.”

 

“Oh. Well you’re safe here, man. If you ever meet some pretty girl somewhere… Maybe you’ll find someone.”

 

Stiles' ears are definitely pink now, and Derek wonders why he's getting all awkward about the offer. He shrugs it off. He probably just feels weird, knowing Derek has had troubles in the past. 

 

“I don't know,” Derek says. “Still. Couldn’t get married, couldn’t move into together… It wouldn’t be the same. But uh… thanks. I’ll keep it in mind.”

 

“Sure,” Stiles says. “I get it. Y’know, you didn’t hear it from me, but I wouldn’t be too surprised if Ethan and Danny started dating soon.”

 

“Well _you_ didn’t hear it from _me_ ,” Derek says, smirking a little, “but it smells like they’re going to get together soon, too.”

 

“Dude, seriously?” Stiles asks, excited.

 

“No guarantees,” Derek says, raising his hands in innocence. “But I’d be surprised if they didn’t.”

 

Derek’s happy for them, too. Like he said, werewolf relationships don’t often work out well, but Lydia and Jackson certainly aren’t selling Danny, and if Danny likes him so much, Ethan shouldn’t be going anywhere either. The only concern is that if there’s a messy breakup, they might send Ethan back since they bought him in the first place to keep Danny company, but… Sometimes taking a risk is worth it. Derek has confidence they’ll work it out.

 

It must be nice to be in a healthy, happy relationship. One where you actually care about each other, and don’t have to worry all the time. Even if Derek does manage to escape, he’ll never be able to find a husband or wife without constantly being in fear of them learning his secret. The first time he revealed his lycanthropy certainly taught him a lesson, after all. That's not a mistake he'll make twice. Knowing he’ll never have a meaningful relationship makes his chest ache a little, but he pushes it aside. Wolves are pack creatures, instinctively, but just being around Cora will be a huge step up. And anyway, the missed potential for a relationship is just one more thing that he can’t control in life. No use worrying about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! This chapter is kind of different than usual, and I'd love to hear your thoughts! :)
> 
>  **Warning:** Implied potential rape. It does not occur.


	28. Chapter 28

When Derek hears the key in the door, he’s not concerned. He doesn’t even come out of the kitchen, in fact. He’s busy cooking dinner, something with more substance than usual, now that they have more money to live off of, and he’s kind of enjoying himself. Cooking was never a favorite job of his, but it reminds him of hanging out with his friends in the kitchens, and he can’t really complain. And anyway, Stiles cooks half their meals too, maybe more, so it’s all fair.

 

He’s only concerned when he hears a strange voice as the door swings open.

 

“Hey Stiles!” a man calls. “You home? I brought you something.”

 

Derek freezes.

 

“Stiles?” the voice says again, from the living room now.

 

Derek’s glad that at least this isn’t a burglar, since he knows Stiles’ name and apparently has his own key. Honestly, first Scott and now this guy… Does Stiles hand out house keys like candy?

 

“Leaves all the lights on and isn’t even home,” the man grumbles as he approaches the kitchen. “No wonder his electric bill is- Whoa.”

 

The man stops in the doorway, staring at Derek.

 

He’s older than Derek expected, probably in his fifties.

 

“Well you’re not Stiles.”

 

Derek stares at him, wide-eyed. He’d like to say the same.

 

He has no idea who this guy is or what he wants, but years of training force him to set the knife down and face the stranger, dropping to his knees.

 

“Sir.”

 

“Uhh…” the man says, glancing around the kitchen, as though maybe the cabinets can give him some advice here. “Are you a…? Of course you are. Oh, hell.”

 

Derek realizes, belatedly, that he’s not collared anymore. The man wouldn’t have even been able to tell he’s a slave. He feels like an idiot, and is reminded of when Harris switched from glasses to contacts, till he got so fed up of accidentally trying to push up the nonexistent glasses that he switched back. It’s hard to forget about something you’re so used to, and fifteen years was long enough for Derek to get _pretty_ used to the collar, and everything wearing it entailed.

 

“You’re really a slave?” the guy asks.

 

He sounds a little pissed.

 

Wonderful.

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Alright, get up,” the man says, sighing and taking a seat at the kitchen table. “What were you doing before I got here? Making dinner?”

 

Derek nods.

 

“You mind cooking for three? I have a feeling my son and I are going to need to have a talk.”

 

“No, sir,” Derek says, standing up and going back towards the counter.

 

He has absolutely no idea what to do here. Apparently this guy is Stiles’ dad, but that doesn’t bring much comfort. Stiles really doesn’t talk about his dad all that much, and apparently he didn’t tell him about Derek, which doesn’t bode well. He remembers Stiles saying his dad’s the sheriff and that he could help them get Derek’s collar removed, but that doesn’t mean he would’ve actually done it, or been happy about it.

 

He certainly doesn’t seem happy right now.

 

“You’re not one of Lydia’s, are you? That Ethan fellow?”

 

So Stiles told his dad about Lydia buying a new slave that day, but not about himself. Interesting.

 

“No, sir. Stiles is my master.”

 

He feels gross just saying that.

 

Stiles’ father makes a disgruntled noise, but Derek doesn’t turn away from his task to see what kind of face he’s making. 

 

“Well I’m John,” he says. “What about you?”

 

“My name is Derek.”

 

“Derek,” John says, like he’s testing it out. “How old are you, Derek?”

 

“Thirty, sir.”

 

“You look good for thirty,” John says. His tone doesn’t make it sound sleazy, just something friendly an older man might say to a younger one, but being complimented on his looks by strangers has never ended too well for Derek. He firmly reminds himself that Stiles would never let anyone hurt him, let alone his own father. “I think I was already starting to gray by thirty. Of course, Stiles was in his terrible twos by then, so you can’t even blame me.”

 

Oh. That’s not so bad.

 

“Thank you, sir.”

 

“No need to call me ‘sir’ after every sentence, kid. You’re making me feel old.”

 

“My apologies.”

 

“You’re a little high-strung, huh?” John asks, but he doesn’t seem to expect an answer. It doesn’t sound malicious, but he still doesn’t seem too happy. “You want some help making dinner?”

 

“I’m fine,” Derek says. “But thank you.”

 

“Just as well,” John says. “I was never much of a cook. Stiles always insisted on cooking when we lived together. Wanted to keep me healthy, never let me eat anything fun. Still doesn’t if he can help it.” Under his breath, he mutters, “I think I deserve several large pizzas after this, though.”

 

When dinner’s almost done, John says, “How about I set the table, then? It’s not fair for you to do everything.”

 

That’s a good sign, Derek supposes, and John is already up and rummaging through the cupboards before he can object.

 

“Thank you,” Derek says.

 

“No trouble,” John says, and out of the corner of his eye Derek catches him pulling out enough dishes for three people. If he’s affording Derek this much respect, then maybe he’s not so bad. Still, assumptions are never safe. All he can really do is wait for Stiles to get home and hope for the best.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, I’m home!” Stiles calls. “Dinner almost done?”

 

“Nice to see you,” his father says, stepping out of the kitchen. “Dinner’s already on the table.”

 

Oh, no.

 

Oh, no, no, no.

 

“Heeey, Dad,” Stiles says, rocking on the balls of his feet. “Daddio. Pops. What’s up? Wasn’t expecting you to drop by.”

 

“I thought I’d bring you a few of Melissa’s world famous cupcakes, since she’s forbidden me from having any myself,” his dad says, pointing to a cardboard box tied neatly with a string and sitting by the front door. “And I offered to drop them off myself, since every time I’ve called you for the past month trying to get together, you’ve mysteriously had plans.”

 

“Oh. Well uh- thanks, Dad. Much appreciated and all that jazz. You know me, though. Very busy man. Gotta get back to work and all, and-”

 

“Work?” John says, raising an eyebrow. “I’m sure you have time for dinner, at least. It smells great.”

 

“Right, sure,” Stiles says, laughing nervously. “Of course.”

 

His father leads the way into the kitchen, where Derek is of course sitting at the table, looking very uncomfortable.

 

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?” his dad asks, gesturing at Derek.

 

“Oh! Oh, yeah. Totally. Of course. You distracted me, Dad, I totally forgot he was even here. Um, Dad, this is my friend. Miguel. Miguel, this is my dad.”

 

John and Derek give him matching dubious looks.

 

“Miguel, huh?”

 

“Yup,” Stiles says. “A friend of Lydia’s, actually. We met at a party of hers. He’s going to culinary school and he likes to cook for different tastes. Hence him. Uh. Being in my house. Without me. He wanted dinner to be a surprise.”

 

“Really?” his father asks. His eyebrows go even higher. “You know, that’s funny, because on those cooking shows, you rarely see people using frozen peppers and jarred sauce.” 

 

“To be _fair_ , cooking good food with non-fresh ingredients could totally be a challenge on one of those shows, and anyway, Miguel’s just learning to cook, hence the culinary _school_ , and-”

 

“Son, for starters, this lie is awful even for you,” John says. Stiles winces. “Number two, any story that involves the word ‘hence’ that many times is probably pretty bad. And number three, from what I’ve gathered, this man is a thirty-year-old werewolf slave named Derek who’s been living with you for almost two months.”

 

Well, shit.

 

“That… is also a possibility,” Stiles says, voice a tiny bit too high.

 

His father gives a longsuffering sigh.

 

“Stiles, can I speak to you for a moment? Upstairs?”

 

“Upstairs? Are uh, are you sure you wouldn’t rather speak down here? Y’know. Where there’s a _witness_?”

 

John rolls his eyes.

 

“I think we’ve put Derek here through enough trouble tonight. You just eat your dinner, son. Don’t wait up.”

 

Derek nods, and Stiles heads for the stairs, grumbling about being bossed around in his own home and how it wasn’t _that_ bad of a lie.

 

* * *

 

They end up at the end of the upstairs hallway, with Stiles leaning against his bedroom door.

 

“So,” his dad crosses his arms. “Do you want to explain to me _why_ a thirty-year-old werewolf slave named Derek has been living with you for almost two months?”

 

“Not particularly?” Stiles offers.

 

His father gives him a look.

 

“Okay, okay,” Stiles groans. “Listen, it’s not as bad as it sounds, I promise.”

 

“Really? Because that man dropped to his knees when I came in the room, wouldn’t stop calling me ‘sir’, and referred to _you_ as his ‘ _master’_. It’s not sounding very good, Stiles.”

 

It’s like he’s dealing with Scott all over again.

 

“Let me start off by saying this is not my fault.”

 

“It never is, is it?” John sighs.

 

“Hey, my mischief is Scott’s fault like twenty percent of the time, and Lydia’s the other eighty.”

 

“And whose might it be this time, oh innocent son of mine?”

 

“Lydia’s, as it so happens. Listen…”

 

He proceeds to explain to his father as much of the past two months as he can. He skips a few choice details, like the specifics of the incident in his bedroom and Derek’s blue eyes, but otherwise he gives a pretty good crash course on the past couple months of his life. Going over it all feels weird; it hasn’t actually been that long with Derek, but it feels like a lifetime.

 

When he’s finally done, he crosses his arms, leaning back against the wall and looking at his father expectantly.

 

“Well?”

 

“I just wanted to drop off some cupcakes,” John says tiredly. “Nothing can ever be that simple with you, can it?”

 

Stiles snorts.

 

“Sorry Dad, no can do.”

 

“Course not,” John says, clapping him on the shoulder. “But I’m proud of you, son. It’s good that you’re working on a new book, and it’s good what you’re doing for Derek.”

 

“Well after everything people have done _to_ him…” Stiles shrugs. “It’s the very least he deserves.”

 

“He deserves a hot meal, too,” his dad says. “Why don’t we get down there?”

 

Stiles has to hold back a sigh of relief as they head back towards the stairs.

 

Not that his father is an unreasonable man, but he’s dealt with a lot of Stiles’ shit over the years, and this is a whole new level.

 

It’s good to know he’s not going to freak out about it.

 

* * *

 

Derek isn’t sure he’s ever experienced anything more awkward than waiting alone downstairs while Stiles talks to his dad. That is, of course, until they actually join him for dinner.

 

He can tell that the sheriff is a little tense around him, even if he’s trying not to be. He’s been polite the whole time, so it’s not really a problem, but if he knows as little about werewolves as Stiles used to, then Derek isn’t surprised about his apprehension. Stiles assured Derek that _my dad is just like me, you don’t need to worry_ while he was pouring him water earlier, so Derek supposes he shouldn’t be too wary, at least. 

 

“So, Derek,” John says during a lull conversation. “Tell me about yourself.”

 

“Uh…”

 

“Dad, c’mon, that’s such an awkward question,” Stiles defends. “This isn’t a first date.”

 

Embarrassment flares in his scent, which is weird.

 

“Well I wouldn’t have to ask if I got to know him right off the bat,” John says pointedly, and Stiles shuts up. He looks back to Derek. “Only if you’re comfortable, kid.”

 

“I don’t really know what to say,” Derek says, shrugging. It’s not exactly a request he gets often. “Like I said, I’m thirty. I came from a big family. My last name is Hale.”

 

Stiles drops his fork, and Derek’s eyes snap to him.

 

“You never told me your last name,” Stiles says, apparently shocked. “Hale, you said?”

 

Derek nods.

 

“How did I _never_ ask you your last name? Actually…” He ducks his head. “I never even thought about it. I kinda assumed you didn’t have one, I guess? Which, like, is stupid. Everyone has a last name, but you never said, and the papers didn’t either, so I- Huh… Hale. I like it.”

 

“It was always easy to write on tests and things,” Derek says, shrugging. “It was nice during timed pop quizzes, when kids would sit there scratching out their twenty letter names and I only had nine. Not like it exactly made a difference, but it felt like it did at the time.”

 

“Ugh, try twenty-two letters,” Stiles groans. “I remember hating that.”

 

Derek frowns.

 

“Twenty-two? Stiles Stilinski is only fifteen.”

 

“You think I named him _Stiles Stilinski_?” John asks, chuckling. “Claudia and I weren’t cruel.”

 

“You most certainly were,” Stiles says, jabbing his fork—and, consequently, a beef tip—at his father. “The _actual_ monstrosity is this close to child abuse.”

 

“What’s your actual name?”

 

“That is undisclosed information,” Stiles says flatly.

 

“I told you mine,” Derek points out.

 

“Yes, because yours is cool. Derek Hale. Smooth. Nice ring to it. Mine? It’s Polish, and it’s _thirteen_ letters.”

 

“We named him after his grandfather on his mother’s side. It meant a lot to him, even if it wasn’t the best name.”

 

“The best name?” Stiles demands. “Not only is it a weird name in English, but even most _Polish_ people have never heard of it. I’m convinced grandpa’s parents made it up. I’m going to write in my will that I only leave any possessions to my kids on the condition that they swear not to _honor_ me by naming their children after me.”

 

Derek smirks.

 

“I’m going to have to get it out of you some day.”

 

“It’s really not so bad,” John says. “It’s-”

 

“Hey!” Stiles squawks. “No, no, no! Forget the key, I can totally still have you thrown outta here for trespassing!”

 

“Who are you going to call?” Derek asks, raising an eyebrow. “The sheriff?”

 

John snorts.

 

“I like you already, Derek.”

 

“I’m being tag-teamed in my own home,” Stiles huffs. “Ridiculous.”

 

* * *

 

Derek seems to get progressively more comfortable around Stiles’ fathe for the first half of dinner, and then progressively less comfortable during the second half.

 

Stiles has no idea what to attribute Derek’s increasing quietness to till they finally finish dinner and John takes a trip to the bathroom.

 

“You sure you’re okay?” Stiles asks. “I’m sorry to spring him on you like this. Not the best circumstances, but he’s a good guy, trust me.”

 

“It’s not that,” Derek says. “I’m fine.”

 

“You don’t _seem_ fine,” Stiles says. “C’mon, Derek. What is it?”

 

“Nothing,” he says again. “It’s stupid.”

 

“Nothing that’s bothering you is ever stupid, man. What is it?”

 

Derek sighs.

 

“Your dad smells like wolfsbane. It’s probably the bullets in his gun, if he carries one. Not a big deal.”

 

“Fuck, dude, you should’ve _said_ something. Is it hurting you?”

 

“It’s fine,” Derek insists. “It doesn’t hurt, it’s not a high enough concentration from this distance. It’s just a little unsettling.”

 

“Still. No reason for you to feel uncomfortable in your own home.” Derek blinks a little at that. Stiles supposes he doesn’t refer to it as Derek’s home too often, but it is. Of course it is. “I’ll tell him to leave it somewhere you can’t smell it.”

 

“Is that legal?” Derek asks. “For a member of law enforcement to just leave their gun lying around someone else’s house?”

 

“Probably. I dunno,” Stiles says, shrugging. “But c’mon. Who’s gonna burst in on us breaking the law, anyway? The sheriff?”

 

Derek smiles a little at the echoing of his earlier joke, and that’s really all Stiles needed to see.

 

* * *

 

Stiles’ father only sticks around for half an hour or so after dinner. He eats two of the cupcakes he brought—giving Stiles a _look_ when he tries to protest, one that says today is _so_ not the time—and Stiles and Derek each have one too. Derek hears the sheriff agree surprisingly easily to leave his gun in a drawer in the living room when Stiles intercepts him at the bottom of the stairs to say it’s making Derek a little uneasy, and Derek decides maybe he kind of likes the man. Derek tends not to take to humans very quickly, but logically he knows they’re not all terrible. All his friends when he was a kid were human, of course, and being around Stiles has somehow managed to brighten his view on how good humans can be.

 

Not that he’s an idiot. He knows he can’t trust the majority of them, but as a rule of thumb, Stiles doesn’t tend to associate with bad people.

 

When John finally is ready to leave, he shakes Derek’s hand and gives Stiles a firm hug, making him promise to come visit soon. He throws out an invite to Derek, too, but doesn’t try to pressure either of them, and Derek appreciates it. Not that he should be getting all buddy-buddy with anyone Stiles is close to. He’ll be leaving here eventually, and there’s no point in getting to know people he’ll only end up angering and disappointing.

 

Once his dad is gone, Stiles heads to the kitchen again and Derek follows. They descend back on the cupcakes like locusts.

 

“Hypocritical, no?” Derek asks, as Stiles licks the icing off his third cupcake.

 

“What, not wanting my dad to eat them? Hey, _I’m_ not the one with heart issues.”

 

“He said the doctor’s really happy with how he’s been doing lately,” Derek points out. “That it only got really bad that one time.”

 

“Yeah, yeah. It’s good because he’s been staying _away_ from junk food.”

 

Derek shrugs. It’s not like werewolves have heart problems short of being stabbed in the chest, so he doesn’t have much of a leg to stand on here.

 

“He’s a nice guy,” he says instead.

 

“He is,” Stiles agrees. “Best dad in the world. I love him. Honestly, I didn’t realize how much I’ve been pushing him off lately. Whenever we talked in the last two months I would make sure he was still okay health-wise, and then come up with some garbage excuse about why he couldn’t come over here. I’m definitely gonna visit him soon, and if you have any interest… Like he said, you’re certainly welcome. Maybe we can even have a ‘family’ dinner with Scott and his mom, Melissa. That’d be fun. Well, _I_ think so, anyway. You think about it.”

 

“Sometime, maybe,” Derek says. “I like Scott, and your dad seems like a good man. I didn’t know what to think when he showed up out of nowhere.”

 

Stiles grimaces.

 

“Talk about unexpected visitors. He, uh… He told me you were doing the whole, y’know, formal slave thing with him. Obviously this is a little late, but I just wanted to let you know that you never have to do that again. No one has the ability to hurt you anymore, nor the desire. And if anyone _does_ try to do something to you, they’ll be out on their ass in two seconds flat. This is a shithead free zone, and no one hurts my friends.”

 

An odd warmth flares in Derek’s chest at Stiles referring to him as a friend, and at Stiles’ whole little speech, but he shoves it away.

 

“Thanks,” he says, ever eloquent. He pauses a moment, then adds, “Can I ask you something?”

 

“Anything,” Stiles says sincerely.

 

“Why didn’t you want your dad to know about me?”

 

As much as he hates to acknowledge it, something in the back of his mind is niggling at him, a stupid little voice telling him Stiles is ashamed of him. And it’s not like Stiles’, or anyone else’s, opinion of him is his end all, be all, but. Well. Apparently, the only people Stiles told about buying Derek were Jackson and Lydia, who were there when he made the purchase. At first Derek had attributed Stiles not telling his dad about him to John potentially treating him badly, but that was ruled out not long after meeting the man. Stiles made a purposeful effort to keep Scott and John from learning of his existence, and both of them managed to get over it in just a few hours. It doesn’t seem unfathomable, especially towards the beginning, that Stiles was less than proud of the angry, damaged, blue-eyed werewolf suddenly in his possession.

 

Stiles ponders for a moment, and finally closes his eyes, shaking his head.

 

“I dunno, man. I just had no idea how he would react. Like don’t get me wrong, he never would’ve been mad at _you_ , but I had no idea what he would think of me. He’s never expressed any opinion vehemently against slavery or anything, and it’s not like Beacon Hills is teeming with werewolves, but he’s dealt with a few rough werewolf cases in the past. Never put much thought into it as a kid except that _Dad’s upset tonight_ , but looking back on it with some perspective… He probably dealt with some tough shit. He was _not_ happy to hear you call me Master,” Stiles says the word with a distinct air of distaste, and Derek feels the same, “and it just seemed easier, at least for the time being, to keep it from him. I mean, how do you explain that? _Oh, hey dad, by the by, I, your son with long term financial issues, impulsively bought a slave today. How’re things by you?_ Yeah, no. As time went by it just seemed like a more and more awkward conversation to have. And it certainly wasn’t a good idea in the first week or two. I mean,” he says, tone self-deprecating, “you didn’t exactly like me.”

 

Derek’s not really sure how to respond to that, though it does make him feel better, so he settles for an easy, “I like you now.”

 

Stiles laughs, a smile taking over his face.

 

“I’m like a fine wine,” he says. “Or cheese? I don’t know, I’m not classy. But one of those things that gets better with time!”

 

“Maybe cheese,” Derek says. “Especially because you both smell when you sit at the table for too long. Writing for fifteen hours straight in unhealthy.”

 

Stiles kicks lightly at him under the tale, but if anything, his grin only widens.

 

Derek laughs too, then, partly because it’s funny, but mostly because the shift of Stiles’ facial muscles makes it apparent that the tiny brown dot near his mouth isn’t one of his many moles, but a dot of chocolate frosting.

 

Unthinkingly, Derek reaches out and swipes it away with his thumb. Stiles’ expression changes from surprise—Derek feels a little surprised himself as soon as he does it, but it’s not a bad feeling—at the hand coming towards his face to amused disgust when Derek shows him what he wiped away.

 

“Ew, dude,” he groans. And then, “Eughh!” when Derek rubs the splotch onto Stiles’ forearm when he realizes he doesn’t exactly have anything to do with it.

 

Derek pulls a perfectly innocent face, grabbing himself another cupcake.

 

This one is vanilla with chocolate frosting, and Derek tears off the bottom half, squishing it on top.

 

Stiles raises a judgmental eyebrow.

 

“ _What_ is _that_?”

 

“My fifth grade teacher told us she used to eat them like this. I thought it was weird at first too, but it’s good,” Derek says. “It’s like a sandwich.”

 

Stiles rolls his eyes dramatically as Derek takes a bite.

 

“It’s a crime against baked goods, that’s what it is,” he grumbles.

 

“Don’t challenge me on my incredible culinary skills,” Derek says, feeling looser and happier than he has in a while. The night might've gotten off to a rough start, but it went surprisingly well, and now he's hanging out with Stiles and eating a cupcake for the first time in fifteen years. It's hard to complain. “The amazing culinary student, Miguel No-Last-Name, does not appreciate or require the opinions of lowly critics.”

 

Stiles' cheeks flood pink at the reminder of his ridiculous lie, and Derek once again has to tamp down on the warm, fluttering feeling in his chest.

 

He has _no_ idea what that’s about.

 

He probably just had too much sugar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmm... now I kinda want a cupcake...... Also, what's sweeter? Chocolate cupcakes, or a flustered Stiles? ;)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, and I always appreciate hearing your thoughts!


	29. Chapter 29

Stiles is in the middle of making pizza when his phone rings. He lets it go because his hands are covered in dough and sticky as hell, and it’s probably just Lydia anyway. She wasn’t supposed to call till seven, so eh. Stiles can get back to her later.

 

Instead of leaving a voicemail, though, the phone rings again a minute or so later. And then again after that.

 

“Derek,” he sighs. “Do you mind getting that and telling Lyds that I’ll call her back after dinner?”

 

“Sure,” Derek says easily, grabbing Stiles’ phone off the counter and quickly answering before the call has time to end again. “Hello?”

 

Stiles glances over his shoulder, still kneading the store-bought dough.

 

“No, uh, he’s a little busy right now…I’m sorry his voicemail box was full…Yes…” Derek seems to grow paler as the person on the other side talks, and Stiles arches an eyebrow, mouthing _What?_ Derek just shakes his head. “Right…I wasn’t aware of that, but maybe he is…I’m his, uh- friend…Right…This week?...Okay…Well I can’t really-…No, I-…I’m really not in charge of that…Right…I’ll make sure he calls you back tonight....” Stiles thinks he’s going to explode if Derek doesn’t fill him in soon, and he runs his hands under the sink for a few seconds and grabs a stray dish towel. “Right…” Derek seems like he’s more in a rush to get off the phone now that Stiles is ready to pick it up. “Right…Yes…Okay…You, uh, you have a good night too. Goodbye.”

 

He turns the cell off and holds it out, looking stricken.

 

“Dude,” Stiles says, crossing the kitchen in three quick steps, taking the phone in one hand and setting the other firmly on Derek’s shoulder. “What on earth was that? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

 

Derek swallows thickly, eyes cutting away for a moment before he looks at Stiles.

 

“The slave agency. Apparently you signed something when you had my collar removed entitling them to an in-house checkup. They get to come see how I’m behaving and if I’m properly trained and all that. If you can control me without the collar, basically.”

 

Stiles stares at him, wide-eyed.

 

Oh, shit.

 

Yeah. Yep. That’s a thing he did. Signed some paperwork he barely read. His cop father would kill him for this.

 

“You signed that?” Derek asks, voice low as he comes to the same conclusion as Stiles.

 

“I’m sorry. It was right after Kate came into Chris’ office,” Stiles says, wincing. “I wanted to get you out of there before you realized we were in an Argent facility, and I was a little worked up, and in the beginning of the session Chris mentioned having to sign something that waived them of liability if you ever hurt someone. When he gave me the papers, I thought that was all they were. God, I’m so _stupid_.”

 

Derek doesn’t say anything, and Stiles lets his hand drop away.

 

“Listen,” he continues. “Don’t worry about it, alright? I’ll call them up, see what I can do about it. It’ll be fine, Derek. Do you want me to call now, or should we wait till we finish dinner?”

 

They’ve been looking forward to Stiles’ attempt at homemade pizza all week.

 

“I’m, uh,” Derek says, dragging a hand roughly against his stubble. “I’m actually not that hungry anymore.”

 

* * *

 

“Here,” Stiles says, setting his phone on the coffee table and settling on the opposite end of the couch from Derek. Dinner is in the oven, but it’s probably best to make the call before the place closes for the night. “I’m going to put the person on speaker so you can hear too, okay? Just, like… Maybe don’t say anything? I don’t want to weird the employee out and have them be less agreeable. But you can whisper to me or whatever if you need to tell me something or want me to ask them anything.”

 

Derek nods, and Stiles leans forward to press call on the number he already dialed.

 

“Hello, this is Argent Facilities, my name is Tracy. How can I help you this evening?” a chipper voice answers on the third ring.

 

“Hi, this is Stiles Stilinski, I got a call from you earlier,” Stiles says. “My friend picked up, said I should call you back?”

 

“Ooh, I’m sorry!” Tracy says, sounding truly devastated. Derek wonders where in the world they get these people. “I just got on shift, and my coworker put away her records for the night already. Can you fill me in on why we needed to get in touch?”

 

“Sure,” Stiles sighs. “Apparently I signed some papers when you took, uh, my slave’s collar off. Saying that I gave permission for an in-house checkup?”

 

“Oh! I remember you from the paperwork, actually. Nice to have an unusual last name sometimes, huh?” She gives a tinkly laugh. Derek wants to punch her in the face through the phone. “You came in a few weeks ago, right?”

 

“Right.”

 

“Cool, so that would make it time for the appointment, yep. What day this week works for you?”

 

“Well I was actually meaning to ask you about that,” Stiles says. “Is this appointment absolutely necessary?”

 

“Hmm,” Tracy hums. “Well, yes _and_ no.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Well, you do need to have an appointment with us,” she says. “And we do prefer it be in-house, with you, so we can see how well you’re capable of handling your slave. But, for a small fee, if you’re busy or traveling or simply prefer it this way, we’ll come pick the slave up from you and bring it here. We have a few special rooms set up right in the same building where you had the collar taken off for this sort of thing. They’re equipped with everything we’ll need at no additional cost to you, and two of our well-trained attendants will see whether the slave in question is capable of following commands and behaving properly under pressure. Please remember that all slaves on Argent property who are uncollared need to be kept in standard restraints. Also, bear in mind that the testing will be more rigorous on the basis that the owner isn’t there to prove his own handling abilities. But don’t worry,” she says, laughing lightly again, “it’s not like any mishaps won’t heal up soon enough anyway!”

 

Derek feels his stomach drop, and when Stiles glances over him with a disgruntled look on his face but a raised brow, he shakes his head violently.

 

“No, thank you,” Stiles says. “I’d prefer the at-home visit. But anyway, I meant something more along the lines of is there any way to avoid this altogether.”

 

“Oh, no, I’m sorry about that, sir. No way around it. Are you sure you don’t want to just have us pick the slave up, though? If you’re not interested in having us in your home, it really is a convenient meth-”

 

“No,” Stiles says, more forcefully this time. “No thank you.”

 

“Okie-doke,” Tracy says agreeably. “I’ll put you down for an at-home visit, then. Unless… Would you be interested in having your slave’s collar reattached? If you were to do that, naturally we could put this whole thing behind us. Otherwise, as stated in the paperwork upon your initial purchase, we maintain the right to take your slave back into our care, either for the amount of time it takes you to decide you want an appointment, or permanently with a reimbursement of the price you paid for the slave at the time of purchase, with possible exceptions in the case of permanent physical damage. If it’s a slave from a private trade, we’ll work something with you.”

 

“Can you give me a sec?”

 

“Sure!” Tracy says. “Believe me, I know dealing with all this can be a pain. My elderly mother just had to go through it to get her girl decollared. Even us employees don’t get a break there, unfortunately…”

 

“Right,” Stiles says flatly, and mutes the phone. He turns to Derek. “What do you want to do?”

 

“I don’t want the collar back,” Derek says, running a hand over the unmarred expanse of his throat.

 

The very idea of being recollared makes him want to cringe.

 

“The visit would only be one day,” Stiles reasons. “You’d rather do that, wouldn’t you?”

 

Derek sighs.

 

“Yeah. Yeah, that’d be better.”

 

“Alright. You have a preference for a day?”

 

“Tomorrow?” Derek suggests, frowning. “I don’t really want to spend the whole week dreading it.”

 

“Fair,” Stiles says. “I’ll see if that’s available. Anything else?”

 

“Not really.”

 

“Alright, man. No worries.”

 

He leans back in and unmutes the phone.

 

Tracy is humming to herself under her breath.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Mr. Stilinski! Hey there! Any updates?”

 

“I’d like an at-home visit. Are there any appointments available tomorrow?”

 

“Suddenly eager, huh?” she asks. “Sure thing. I can set you up for two o’clock. How’s that?”

 

Stiles glances at Derek, and he nods.

 

“That sounds good to me.” 

 

“Excellent. Can I get your home address and your slave’s ID number for my form?”

 

Stiles rattles off the address, and more reluctantly, adds, “And Derek’s number is 01927.”

 

“Aw, I love the name Derek!” Tracy exclaims. “Did you pick that out yourself?”

 

“His parents did,” Stiles says impatiently. “Is that all?”

 

“That’s all,” Tracy says. “We’ll send a representative to your house at two o’clock. For their safety, please have the slave chained and muzzled in a way that meets the standard California requirements, kneeling in plain view of the front entrance upon their arrival.”

 

“ _Muzzled_?”

 

A muzzle. Now that’s something Derek hasn’t had to wear in a long time.

 

“Yep. Similar to our policy that uncollared slaves must be kept in chains on Argent property, we take safety precautions here, too.”

 

“He doesn’t _need_ a muzzle,” Stiles says sharply. “I don’t even _own_ one.”

 

“Well, he’ll need one for the appointment. Gag, muzzle, whatever you can get your hands on as long as it’s Were-Certified. The slave should’ve come with a gag in when you purchased him. Was that not the case?”

 

“I… I don’t know if I still have it.”

 

“I wouldn’t worry. You can pick one up for under twenty bucks at your local supply store. Do you need me to reschedule the appointment so you have time?”

 

“No,” Stiles says, sounding frustrated. “Just- It’s fine. Goodnight.”

 

 “Night! We look forward to seeing you tom-”

 

Stiles ends the call.

 

“Do you know what I did with that gag thing?” he asks tiredly, flopping back on the couch to look at Derek. “And what ‘certified’ even means?”

 

“A certified one has wolfsbane or mountain ash in or on it to prevent us from biting through,” Derek mutters. Gags were always one of his least favorite things, but muzzles were even worse. “I have no idea what you did with mine.”

 

“I think I threw it away,” Stiles huffs. “Damn it. Why the fuck do you need a muzzle? You’re not a-”

 

He stops just short of the word _dog_ , but the irony pretty clear, and Derek’s sure it’s not lost on whoever came up with the idea.

 

“Can’t say I blame them,” Derek says. “I think if I ever met that woman in person I’d be pretty tempted to bite her.”

 

Stiles snorts.

 

“Do you want to come with me to pick the stupid thing out? Help me find a slightly more comfortable one?”

 

“I guess so.”

 

“Awesome,” Stiles says. “These people really know how to ruin a night.”

 

* * *

 

Stiles is surprised and kind of terrified by the range of different gags and muzzles this place has. He’d asked a salesperson what aisle to look in as soon as he’s stepped in the store, grateful they didn’t have to spend any more time than absolutely necessary here.

 

“So uh…” Stiles says. “Anything jumping out at you?”

 

“Not really. Except maybe an urge to jump out the window.”

 

“Not sure how successful that would be, considering this place only has one floor,” Stiles says. “But I wouldn’t be totally opposed to the idea of skipping this altogether and, like, hightailing it to Canada.”

 

That gets a small smirk from Derek, which is good.

  
“ _Attention, shoppers_ ,” a voice announces over a loudspeaker. “ _The store will be closing in fifteen minutes. I repeat, we will be closing in fifteen minutes_.”

 

“Sooo,” Stiles says. “Let’s get this over with.”

 

They glance around the shelves till Stiles’ eyes land on the muzzle section. They look incredibly restrictive, essentially pieces of thick cloth or other materials that wrap around the entire bottom half of the face, underneath the chin, and around the back of the head. He picks up a black leather one, letting it dangle distastefully from a single finger. It’s different from a gag in that it doesn’t actually go in the mouth, but it looks worse, in his opinion.

 

“You want one of these?” Stiles asks. “Or… a gag?”

 

“Hey, guys,” a sales assistant says, heading down their aisle. “You boys need some help?”

 

“We’re fine,” Stiles tells her. He can only take so many people making Derek feel like shit in one day. “But thank you.”

 

“Call me if you need me,” she says, continuing on her way.

 

“I’d rather not have a muzzle,” Derek says once she’s gone. “Not that gags are much better, but muzzles seem more demeaning.”

 

They sound that way too, Stiles thinks, and puts it back on the shelf.

 

“A gag, then.”

 

They walk a few more feet, and Derek picks one up. It proudly states Were-Certified on the label. It’s a piece of thick cloth with a fat pouch in the middle, somewhat reminiscent of a ball gag, but made of fabric.

 

“ _Filled with wolfsbane powder, for a nasty surprise for any biters_ ,” Derek reads, voice hard. “How’s this one?”

 

Stiles vaguely remembers the handler at Derek’s auction telling him about the hardest gags for werewolves to bite through. Stiles didn’t think it would ever actually affect him.

 

“Anything you want is fine with me. This is the only time you’ll ever have to wear it, but you should still be as comfortable as you can.”

 

“This is good,” Derek says, shrugging. “It’s kind of soft. But it’s thirty-four dollars.”

 

“Not a problem,” Stiles assures, taking it from him. “It’s worth it.”

 

* * *

 

They go home to cold pizza and a night of tense, anticipatory silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes. We're in for some real angst, guys. Poor DerBear :( As always, I'd love to hear what you thought!


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This chapter ended up being split in half, because it came out to 12,000 words. This half is 7,000. Please remember that it will be angsty. There are warnings at the end, which obviously are somewhat spoilery but still worth checking if you need (please do check them if any of the tags or general themes of the story might trigger you; your mental health is very important). That said, I really hope you enjoy!

Apparently, Derek has no idea what one of these checkups is like. He’s never had his own collar removed, nor have any of his friends, and he’s never been present for an appointment like this. Which is how Stiles ends up on the phone with Danny.

 

“I’ve never even heard of one of these things, to be honest,” Danny says. “I know I didn’t have one. Maybe because I was a kid? I was five years old when the Whittemores bought me. I’ve never seen anyone else have one either, but that could be because Jackson’s parents usually went to private traders. I don’t think anyone in the house ever had a collar. Jax’s dad had this, uh… This weird cattle prod thing? But I don’t remember him ever using it. I just know Jackson found it once and kinda flipped. Anyway, uh… Maybe it’s a newer practice?”

 

“What about Ethan?” Stiles asks. “I can’t remember, but was he wearing a collar when he first came home?”

 

“Oh, that’s a good point,” Danny says. “Knowing Jackson, he might have paid them off. Wait, let me go get Ethan.”

 

There’s some shuffling over the line, and a muffled conversation between the two before Ethan ends up on the phone.

 

“Um… Hello?”

 

He doesn’t sound all that comfortable talking to Stiles.

 

“Hey, Ethan. Can I ask you something kind of weird?”

 

“I guess,” he says slowly. “Go ahead.”

 

“Cool. So uh, Lydia and Jackson had your collar removed, right?”

 

“Yeah…”

 

“Did you go in for an appointment?”

 

“To have it taken off?”

 

“No, afterwards. A few weeks later. So they could gauge your behavior without it or whatever?”

 

“Oh,” Ethan says. “No, I didn’t have to do that. I know some people who’ve done it before, but I don’t have any details except that it takes maybe an hour. Jackson’s, uh… He’s really cool. He probably took care of it with them.”

 

“Alright, thanks man. You can put Danny back on.”

 

“Will do,” Ethan says, sounding glad to be off the phone.

 

There’s some more shuffling before Danny picks up again.

 

“Hi,” he says. “Sorry about that. No info on our end. I would try talking to Lydia. Oh, but wait, she’s out doing that tutoring thing now. Maybe try Jackson? He’s at work, but he totally texts in his office sometimes.”

 

“That’s fine. Thanks, dude,” Stiles says. “You think we can hang out soon? It’s been a while, and I’d like to get to know Ethan a little better.”

 

“Oh,” Danny says, lowering his voice. “Yeah, I know he sounded kind of nervous. I don’t think it’s you, that’s just what he’s like around humans sometimes. He’s warmed up to Lydia and Jackson really well though, I think ‘cause he sees how at ease I am around them. The two of them have work all week, but maybe we could go for lunch sometime? Derek can come too, if he wants.”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, that’d be good. Say… Thursday?”

 

"Not like I have any plans,” Danny says easily. “I’ll see if Ethan’s cool with it.”

 

“Cool,” Stiles says. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

 

“Later. Tell Derek I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

 

* * *

 

**Stiles Stilinski [12:32 PM]**

_Yooooo_

**Jackass Whitteless [12:36 PM]**

_What_

**Stiles Stilinski [12:36 PM]**

_Hello to you too_

**Jackass Whitteless [12:37 PM]**

_I’m at work!_

**Stiles Stilinski [12:37 PM]**

_Working hard, or hardly working? AmIright? ;))))_

**Jackass Whitteless [12:37 PM]**

_Ha. Ha. Don’t quit your day job_

Jackson apparently realizes how awkward that phrase sounds to someone like Stiles, and it’s quickly followed up by,

 

_What’s up??_

**Stiles Stilinski [12:38 PM]**

_How come Ethan didn’t have to have a follow-up appointment w the Calaveras after he got his collar taken off_

**Jackass Whitteless [12:43 PM]**

_My parents vaguely know Araya. Respected traders and all that. It’d be considered an insult to check in on me_

**Stiles Stilinski [12:44 PM]**

_Well aren’t YOU fancy?_

**Jackass Whitteless [12:44 PM]**

_Fancy as fuck_

_Why? Is Derek having one?_

**Stiles Stilinski [12:44 PM]**

_Unfortunately. I was wondering if there’s anything I can do to get out of it…?_

**Jackass Whitteless [12:46 PM]**

_I can’t help you there. My parents don’t like the Argents. Dad always called the CEO, Gerard, barbaric. I don’t really know all the politics, but we have no relationship with them_

**Stiles Stilinski [12:46 PM]**

_Dammit_

**Jackass Whitteless [12:46 PM]**

_Sorry :/ Is Derek worried?_

**Stiles Stilinski [12:47 PM]**

_He likes the Argents even less than your parents do_

**Jackass Whitteless [12:47 PM]**

_Ah_

**Stiles Stilinski [12:47 PM]**

_Yep. Anything I should know for this thing?_

**Jackass Whitteless [12:51 PM]**

_Do whatever they ask you to do. You really don’t want some asshole who just wants their lunch break to arrive and didn’t sleep enough last night deeming you an unfit owner. They’ll put his collar back on, and it’s a lot harder to get it removed the second time, particularly since Lydia told me his files have behavioral issues already listed. Tell Derek to do whatever they ask, too_

**Stiles Stilinski [12:52 PM]**

_Gotcha_

**Jackass Whitteless [12:52 PM]**

_I mean it, Stiles. Some of it’s probably gonna suck_

**Stiles Stilinski [12:53 PM]**

_I figured. But thanks for the warning_

**Jackass Whitteless [12:53 PM]**

_Mmmm. Catch you later._

* * *

 

“Trust me,” Derek mutters once Stiles has relayed all his gathered information. “I don’t plan on misbehaving.”

 

“You’re gonna be totally fine, I know. I’m just letting you know to make sure to do everything they ask.”

 

Derek looks up from where he’s detangling the chains, catching Stiles’ eye.

 

“I have plenty of experience following orders. I don’t think you need to worry about that.”

 

Stiles’ gut twists unpleasantly as Derek goes back to fiddling with the shackles.

 

“Here,” he says finally, lifting them. “You used a metal cutter on the ones around my legs, but the hand and ankle cuffs are still intact. What time is it?”

 

“One thirty-seven,” Stiles says, glancing at his phone. “Guess we should get to it, huh?”

 

“Yeah,” Derek says, taking a deep breath as he stands. “Let’s get this over with.”

 

“It’s going to be fine,” Stiles promises. “Turn around for me?”

 

Derek does, and Stiles picks up the handcuffs, nudging Derek so he’ll put his arms in position. When he does, Stiles cuffs him.

 

“That feel okay?”

 

Derek tugs, rattling the chains.

 

“Tighter.”

 

“Seriously? I don’t want to hurt you.”

 

“It’s a sign that you’re in control,” Derek says, sounding tired. It’s going to be a long day. “I’ll be fine.”

 

Stiles obliges, and after that they move on to the ankle restraints, Derek instructing him on the proper amount of slack to leave. He tries walking and getting to his knees and back up, and Stiles is surprised, just like he was on the first day, how efficiently Derek can move in them. He thinks it’s safer not to comment.

 

“Should I put this in now?” Stiles asks, grabbing the gag from the coffee table.

 

“Time?”

 

“Seven minutes to two.”

 

“Yeah,” Derek sighs. “Yeah. It’s better if we’re ready a couple of minutes early.”

 

“Alright,” Stiles says. He’s not sure if he feels more awkward being the one to put on Derek’s gag, or if it would’ve been worse to put on his chains in silence. “Uh… Open your mouth, I guess?”

 

“Wait,” Derek says, and Stiles freezes, the offending object suspended halfway between them. “Listen to me. I know you just warned me, but I’m warning _you_. You need to do whatever they say. If they tell you to tell me to do something, just do it. I’m not holding any of this against you, okay? I don’t know what they’re going to do, or if it’s even going to be a big deal, but it’s always a good idea to assume the worst with these people. So just… Do whatever they tell you to. Don’t get offended if they ask about our sex life. Don’t defend me too strongly. People have favorite pets, but they’re probably already weirded out by you taking the collar off a new slave with behavioral issues, so… Just. Let them do what they’re going to do. I know they might say or do something that’s going to make you worry about me, but believe me when I say that whatever happens, I’ve dealt with much worse, with no relief waiting for me at the end. It’s really probably best if you just act like I’m just some slave you couldn’t care less about. Alright?” Stiles presses his lips together, but before he can protest, Derek says, “Please, Stiles. These aren’t people you want to get on the bad side of.”

 

Stiles has no idea what to say to that, so he just swallows around the lump in his throat and nods.

 

“Okay,” he says finally. “Five minutes and counting.”

 

Without another word, Derek opens his mouth to an extent that would be comically wide in less depressing circumstances. With some difficulty, Stiles manages to get the wolfsbane pouch between his teeth, awkwardly poking it a little further into place with two fingers. It forces Derek’s mouth to hang an inch or two open, and Stiles hopes it doesn’t make him start drooling. He walks around Derek and ties the straps into a knot behind his head.

 

When he lets go, Derek makes a sound too muffled for Stiles to understand.

 

“Uh…?”

 

Derek does it again, two exaggerated syllables.

 

“Oh! Tighter?”

 

Derek nods.

 

Reluctantly, Stiles undoes the knot and reties it, pulling the straps even tighter this time.

 

“How’s that feel?”

 

Derek makes three more slow, barely coherent sounds, that Stiles is pretty sure are supposed to amount to, “Wonderful.”

 

He huffs a bitter laugh, and Derek knocks into him with his shoulder. Because that’s the only free part of his body available.

 

God, this whole thing is twisted.

 

* * *

 

The person the agency sends ends up being nearly ten minutes late. Derek’s kneeling in the corner of the small foyer right on time, and the dread in his stomach only continues to pool as they wait. And, of course, Stiles rambles when he’s nervous, which leads to a very awkward, ridiculous, one-sided conversation. Derek’s almost relieved when he hears a car pull up outside, if only because it means the awful anticipation is over. This is going to suck, but it’s inevitably going to happen, so they might as well get it over and done with. Maybe it won’t even be that bad.

 

When the bell rings, Stiles doesn’t answer right away, presumably so he doesn’t look like he was waiting at the door. After a few moments, he reaches for the knob, and over his shoulder he gives Derek a thumbs up.

 

Derek nods before schooling himself into position. He clears his face of any emotion, straightens his back, curls his shoulders in, and sets his eyes on the ground in front of him. The picture of submission.

 

Stiles opens the door, and Derek isn’t sure what hits him first—the smell or the voice.

 

It takes every last ounce of willpower in him to keep his eyes steadily on the floor as Kate Argent steps into his home.

 

* * *

 

“Ms. Argent,” Stiles says slowly, closing the door behind her. Derek feels suddenly claustrophobic in the tiny foyer. “I’m, uh... surprised to see you.”

 

“Oh?” she says lightly. “And like I said last time, please, call me Kate.”

 

“Well, it’s just that your brother said you were a sales associate. I didn’t know you did things like this.”

 

“Senior sales associate,” Kate corrects. “But come on, Stiles. Can I call you Stiles?” She doesn’t wait for him to answer. “It’s the family business. I’m well-versed in every aspect of working with werewolves, and I’m doing all the appointments this month. Isn’t that funny? Training is one of my favorite parts of the job, actually.”

 

_I’m going to train you to be so good, Derek. You’ll be a perfect little puppy in no time._

 

Derek forces the memory away. The _last_ thing he needs right now is to think about the past.

 

“The whole week?” Stiles asks.

 

“Mhmm.”

 

Derek knows what that means as well as Stiles does; they can’t reschedule.

 

“Well I guess we should get this going,” Stiles says. “I’m supposed to meet my father for lunch at three.”

 

He’s not, but Derek appreciates the attempt.

 

“As much as I hate to keep a member of Beacon Hills’ finest waiting,” she says, taking the two steps that put her right in front of Derek, “I can’t guarantee how long this will take. I’m sure the sheriff would agree that the safety of the townspeople is more important than lunch plans.” The sudden change in her tone indicates that she’s now talking to Derek. “Look at me.”

 

Derek stares down at her blood red heels for a beat longer than he probably should before lifting his head to look her in the eye.

 

“Good boy,” she purrs, raking a manicured hand through his hair, and he has to force himself not to shudder.

 

Ironically, her nails are so long they remind him of claws

 

“I’d prefer if you didn’t touch him,” Stiles pipes up.

 

The sentence hangs heavy in the air, sounding silly even to Derek.

 

“I’m sorry,” Kate says eventually, glancing at him over her shoulder, “but these checkups tend to be a bit hands on. I do understand, though, if you like to be the only one with a hand in his hair when he’s on his knees." 

 

Stiles opens his mouth to say something, but snaps it shut.

 

Ice seeps through Derek’s veins, and Kate is smirking when she turns back to him.

 

“Stand,” she orders.

 

Derek gets to his feet in one fluid motion, and now that they’re on level ground, ducks his head again as is customary.

 

“Is there an open space where we can do this?”

 

“Living room,” Stiles says, pointing at the room just ahead. “That should be fine.”

 

“Excellent,” she says. Then to Derek, “Come.”

 

Derek follows her into the living room at a respectful distance, and hears Stiles behind him. He’s pretty sure Stiles’ presence is the only thing getting him through this right now.

 

Kate perches herself on the edge of the coffee table, setting her clipboard down next to her.

 

“Kneel.”

 

Derek does.

 

“Tilt your head back, look at the ceiling. Don’t move.”

 

 _Ugh. I know you wolves have a thing about baring your throat, but_ come on, _Derek. It’s either you learn to submit, or I’ll_ teach _you._

Kate pokes and prods at his gag, trying and failing to slip a finger under the fabric. Derek is glad he had Stiles readjust it. She peers over his shoulder at the chains, and apparently deems those appropriate too. Derek hates the gag more than ever for preventing him from tearing her throat out in such close quarters.

 

“Not a bad job on the restraints,” she tells Stiles. She jots something down on her board. “Can you come here?”

 

Stiles walks over, standing next to Derek and setting a hand on his shoulder, squeezing firmly.

 

“Here,” Kate says, handing him the clipboard. “Give him these orders.”

 

Stiles backs off from Derek a little, looking concerned as he scans the list. It ends up being a basic list of commands that Derek follows easily, from kneel and heel to stand and sit. This isn’t so bad. Derek can deal with this. If he just focuses on Stiles, he can almost pretend Kate isn’t here.

 

“Good,” Kate says lightly, taking her papers back from Stiles when he’s done. “He’s well-behaved. Nice to see he still knows how to mind his manners.”

 

She smiles at him almost indulgently.

 

 _Come on, Derek. Just_ kneel _. It’s really not that difficult a command, and my trigger finger is getting a little worn out…_ There _we go. So good for me, sweetie. Knew you could be a good boy. You_ have _always been so eager to please…_

“How about a walk?” Kate asks cheerfully, standing up.

 

“ _Outside_?” Stiles asks.

 

Kate laughs.

 

“Only for ten blocks or so,” she says easily. “He seems pretty willing to behave around you, but of course he does. You’re his master. He needs to be able to behave around other people too, though.”

 

Stiles glances at him, and Derek gives a miniscule nod of his head.

 

“Alright,” Stiles sighs. “Let’s go.”

 

“I mean, you don’t have to come, if that’s a problem,” Kate says. “I know some owners lead very busy lives.”

 

Even though Derek knows Stiles wouldn’t do that to him, he still feels a jolt of panic.

 

“No,” Stiles says calmly. “That’s alright. Like I said, I’m free till three.”

 

Derek bets Kate’s disappointed.

 

“Do you have a leash?”

 

“A _leash_?”

 

“Well, we are going out in public. You don’t use a leash?’

 

Stiles fidgets a little, and while Derek knows he’s not stupid enough to tell Kate how Derek goes for walks all on his own, he’s can’t help but be worried.

 

“There’s no law about it,” he points out.

 

“No,” Kate hums. “A shame.”

 

“What would I even clip a leash to?” Stiles asks dubiously, and Derek wants to tell him to shut _up_ , because he really doesn’t need to hear Kate go into detail on her methods. “He’s not wearing a collar.”

 

Kate raises an eyebrow.

 

“You really are new at this,” she says. She sounds genuinely interested when she starts to explain. “Some people buy collars that aren’t electric, just to clip leashes to. Or even for the aesthetic. They sell some really gorgeous leather ones. Derek would know.” She smirks. “He used to have a beautiful one that slipped over his actual collar. Black leather with a silver buckle. Do you remember that, Derek?”

 

Stiles looks sorry he asked, but he can’t exactly demand that Kate not speak to Derek.

 

Derek nods once, feeling sick as he looks her in the eyes. 

 

“Then there are harnesses,” Kate continues, to a very distressed-looking Stiles. “Derek had a _few_ of those. Black looks good against his skin, but they make ones from gold chain, too, and that was stunning. How about that one, Derek? Did you like it?”

 

And Derek has to nod, he has to look Kate right in the face and pretend he liked it, has to give her the pleasure of feeling powerful at forcing him to lie, especially in front of Stiles, which is more embarrassing than he can say. But he needs to be good, and he can, he _can_ be good. He knows how to be good, he’s good, he’s _good_ , he’s-

 

“I doubt it,” Stiles interrupts, saving Derek from his own spiraling thoughts, and more importantly, from Kate. “Doesn’t seem comfortable at all. Sounds like it would chafe.” Derek thinks it’s supposed to come out like a joke, but there’s an edge to Stiles’ voice. “Why don’t we get going?”

 

“Well as I was saying,” Kate says, digging back into her purse. “If you did have a leash, it wouldn’t be a problem, since he’ll be wearing this.”

 

And then she pulls out a collar, and Derek’s heart kind of stops.

 

He didn’t- He’s not- He… _What_? He’s been behaving _perfectly_.

 

“Why?” Stiles asks, voice hard. “He’s been good.”

 

Good. Stiles thinks he’s been good. That’s good. _He’s_ good. It’s so, so fucked up, but some small part of himself, some old and sick and twisted and buried and _conditioned_ part, feels pleased at making his owner think he’s good. That means he’s not going to be punished. And he’s behaving well. And- And it doesn’t matter, because Stiles would never punish him _anyway_. But Derek’s on his knees, and being the perfect slave, and Kate’s presence is absolutely fucking with his mind. He doesn’t have to be _good_. Not for Stiles. Except he does. Right now he does.

 

Kate looks down at Derek disdainfully, and he lowers his eyes.

 

“He’s been good—” he’s been _good_ — “but we’re going out in public. He may behave for you under the promise of pain or pleasure, but that doesn’t mean he’ll behave in front of other people. Relax, Stiles. It’s just a precaution.”

 

Derek revels in the fact that if he can just stick it out, this will be the last time he ever wears a collar. The idea of Kate collaring him, though… That makes his insides squirm unpleasantly.

 

“Here,” Stiles says, holding out his hand. If Derek wasn’t gagged, he’d probably sigh in relief. “I’ll put it on him, then.”

 

Kate doesn’t protest, and Derek is grateful. Stiles kneels down in front of him, and lifts his chin with two fingers so they’re looking each other in the eyes. It gives him easier access as he clips the collar around Derek’s neck, but also lets him mouth, _Are you okay?_

 

Derek nods minutely. 

 

Stiles doesn’t look convinced, but he stands when he’s done with Derek’s collar.

 

“Excellent,” Kate says, clapping her hands together. “Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

Stiles is worried about Derek. Like, insanely, incredibly, ridiculously worried. He’s not as nervous about Derek behaving anymore—in fact, Stiles is pretty sure Kate’s presence makes him even more likely to behave, as sick as that it—but he’s definitely concerned about the kind of mental stress this is putting on him. Stiles isn’t exactly sure about what went down between Derek and Kate except that they used to date and she somehow became his owner, his worst one, but he’s sure whatever it is was awful based on how Derek feels about her.

 

Whatever the situation is, Stiles hates her now more than ever as they walk down the street side by side, Derek trailing closely behind. Kate talks about slave trader things, and Stiles tries not to pay too much attention. He hopes Derek isn’t.

 

A lot of people pass by and Derek doesn’t react to any of them, but when a little girl points at them from across the street, shouting, “Look, Mommy! A slave!” he sees Derek flush darkly.

 

Kate sounds smug as she checks something off on her clipboard, saying, “No reaction. You do seem to have him trained well.”

 

They go twelve blocks before turning around, and then take a different way back. Stiles’ heart sinks as they pass a grocer—Ken? Stiles thinks that’s his name—standing outside his store on Main. He remembers Derek talking fondly about the man, how nice he is, how he gives Derek free apples sometimes in exchange for hanging around to listen to him talk about his dead wife. He’s one of the select few humans Derek likes, and that means Stiles loves the guy, even if he’s not 100% sure on his name. Probably-Ken is watching them as they pass, and if his gaping mouth is anything to go by, he recognizes Derek. Kate doesn’t sense anything’s wrong, or maybe doesn’t care, but Stiles looks over his shoulder to see Derek squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. When he sees Stiles looking, he ducks his head as far as he can.

 

Stiles feels awful as he turns back around.

 

* * *

 

“Very well behaved,” Kate says as they reenter the living room. “I have to say I’m impressed.”

 

“Is that all, then?” Stiles asks, taking the collar off Derek and handing it to her.

 

He’s immeasurably glad she didn’t find some stupid reason to shock Derek, but he barely bothers to keep the venom out of his voice.

 

“Almost,” Kate says. “Would you mind bringing me his papers? Derek and I can finish up here.”

 

Stiles is reluctant to leave Derek alone with her, but he has no excuse to cart everyone upstairs, particularly when he’s not totally sure where he even left the papers. He promises himself he’ll be fast as he heads for the stairs.

 

* * *

 

Derek is back kneeling in front of Kate as she sits on the coffee table.

 

He thinks for a moment that maybe, just maybe, this will be over without incident. Maybe she’ll afford him mercy just once in her life. But, of course, she doesn’t. It’s not her nature.

 

“He really likes you,” she says after a few moments. “Or at least, it seems like he does. Does he treat you well, Derek?”

 

It’s a loaded question, at least the way _she_ asks it, but he doesn’t have a lot of options with a gag in his mouth.

 

He nods.

 

Kate dips two fingers under his chin, which he’s pretty sure is a purposeful mimicry of Stiles, and pulls his head up to look at her.

 

“I always loved those eyes,” she says idly, leaning in close. “No need to act like I’m a stranger.”

 

She stares at him intently for a little longer before she says, voice close to a whisper, “You’ve been so good, Der. I know it’s for show, for _me_ , but not all of it. There’s gotta be some reason that kid took your collar off, hmm? How’s he keeping you so perfect? I mean…” She laughs. “You were perfect for _me_ , but that’s a different story. Or is it?”

 

Derek’s skin suddenly feels clammy, and he wants nothing more than to get away from her.

 

“Is that it? Is he _fucking_ you?” she asks, nose scrunching for a moment like it’s scandalous. Derek used to think that was adorable. “Or are you fucking him?” She laughs. Her fingers leave the underside of his chin to caress his cheek, and his stomach roils. “Is that how he keeps you in line? Is that why he likes you so much? Let me ask you something, Derek. Is it a punishment? Or a _reward_?”

 

Shame overtakes Derek as he feels himself start to tremble.

 

“Which of us is better?” she asks. “Do you like it that he’s a guy? Are you as much of a _slut_ for him as you were for me? Do your eyes still flash blue when you finish? Do you look at him like he hung the moon?”

 

His breath starts coming more quickly, sounding loud and wet past the gag, and she smiles.

 

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

 

“You were always such a good boy at heart, Derek,” she says, dragging her hand down the sensitive skin of his throat before letting it fall away. “Even if you needed it fucked into you, sometimes.”

 

“Got ‘em!” Stiles’ voice suddenly rings through the air, and Kate leans back again as he thumps down the stairs. “Here!”

 

Kate is waiting at the bottom of the steps when he arrives, taking the papers and perching on the arm of the couch to compare them to her own files.

 

“He got a little upset while you were gone,” she says lightly, not bothering to look up. “As long as he keeps himself in control I won’t hold it against him. I know how easily he can become distraught.”

 

Derek feels utterly humiliated as he kneels there, breaths coming in short, panicked bursts, right in front of two of his owners. He’s pathetic, that’s what he is. All he ever has been, and all he ever will be. A pathetic shell of a person who fucked the woman who killed his family, and liked it. And then, even when they were dead, he had to _keep_ fucking her. And he deserved it, because he’s so goddamn _pathetic_. But that’s not- He doesn’t- None of that matters now. He can control himself. He doesn’t have to break down. Not here. Not like this. Not in front of…

 

Because he can be good. He’s not bad. He’s a good boy _._

 

_He can be good._

 

* * *

 

Stiles is _so_ torn as he watches Derek quickly devolve into a panic. He wants to run over and do something, but he doesn’t want to make it worse, especially in front of Kate. Speaking of, he can’t believe that she’s just sitting there, totally unaffected by another person having a panic attack right in front of her. He makes the painful decision to just let Derek hold on for two more minutes, and when Kate is done with her papers he ushers her out as quickly as he can. As soon as she’s gone he slams the door, rushing over to Derek.

 

Derek’s still facing the coffee table, and he’s shaking, and Stiles hates that bitch _so_ much. He doesn’t believe for a second that Derek just started freaking out. And even if Kate didn’t specifically do anything, it’s her presence that bothered him in the first place.

 

“Derek?”

 

Derek doesn’t show any sign of having heard him.

 

“Derek, man, ya gotta stand up,” Stiles says, because kneeling is definitely not good for him at a time like this.

 

Derek seems to take it as an order, though, because he gets to his feet in a perfectly smooth motion, muffling a sob as he does so.

 

Oh, shit.

 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Stiles tries, and Derek immediately plunks back to his knees, and the crack against the hardwood is so loud that Stiles flinches. He stares at him, afraid of saying the wrong thing. “Derek, can you please stand up for me and sit down on the table?” he asks carefully.

 

Derek obliges immediately, and Stiles is disappointed to see his eyes are trained on the ground. He walks closer, which _really_ makes Derek shake, and then kneels down in front of him, ducking his head to catch Derek’s eye. At first Derek lowers his head even further, but it quickly becomes clear he can’t escape Stiles’ gaze.

 

“Derek, can you please look at me?” he asks gently.

 

Derek does, but his eyes are terrified, and it makes Stiles’ heart wrench.

 

“You’re okay,” Stiles says, trying to keep up his soft tone while seething with rage. “You know that, right? You know you’re safe?”

 

Derek nods, but it’s automatic, a knee-jerk response to please Stiles.

 

God _dammit_.

 

“That’s good,” Stiles says, regardless. He digs around in his pocket for a second, producing the keys for Derek’s cuffs. “I’m going to get you out of those things now, okay?”

 

Derek doesn’t seem effected, just watches as Stiles releases his ankles. The chains slide to the floor with a satisfying thump, but Derek doesn’t show any sign of reaction until Stiles gets up and walks to stand behind him. Derek draws in on himself impossibly further, and Stiles feels awful knowing he’ll hate himself for acting so vulnerable later. Stiles wants to tell him it’s not his fault, that he clearly has PTSD or something and running into his abuser is definitely a situation that warrants a reaction, even if it’s being thrown into an old headspace, but that will probably have to wait for later.

 

“Shh,” he says instead, patting Derek on the shoulder. “I’m just going to take off your cuffs. It’s okay.”

 

He does as he says, making quick work of the cuffs and kicking them under the table. The knot at the back of Derek’s head takes him a little longer, but even when he gets the knot out, he still has trouble. He moves back around to crouch in front of Derek again, and sees the problem is that Derek is still clamping down on the pouch with his teeth. There are tears streaming down his face now, which is alarming, but Stiles has to take this one step at a time.

 

“Can you open your mouth a little for me, please?”

 

Derek works his jaw till his teeth loosen around the gag, and Stiles carefully pulls it out and tosses it to the floor.

 

He’s about to try saying something when he hears Derek murmur, “I’m good.” At first Stiles thinks he’s saying it in a reassuring kind of way, but he quickly realizes that’s not the case when Derek goes on, ‘I’m good, I’m good, I- I can be good. I’ll be good, I will, I’m good, I’m-”

 

Stiles wonders if it’s too late to track Kate down and slash her tires.

 

“Hey, shh,” he says. “I know you’re good. It’s okay. You behaved _so_ well today, Derek. I’m so proud of you. And I’m really, _really_ sorry Kate showed up. I would get a restraining order against her if I could.”

 

Derek swallows harshly, but doesn’t answer.

 

“Can you tell me what’s-” Stiles starts, but he’s interrupted by Derek going into a coughing fit. And coughing up _blood_. “Whoa! Derek, what- Dude, are you okay!?”

 

Derek coughs into his hand, and Stiles stares in horror at the red and black liquid.

 

_What the hell?_

 

“Derek, hey, c’mon, you need to talk to me. Did she _hurt_ you? What’s going on?”

 

“I’m sorry,” Derek says weakly, eyes trained on the ground.

 

Stiles follows his gaze, and _oh_. God. Apparently Murphy’s Law is in effect today.

 

“Did your fangs come out?” Stiles asks, picking up the gag. Sure enough, there are small puncture holes in the wolfsbane pouch. “Yeah, right?”

 

“Sorry,” Derek murmurs again.

 

“Dude, no,” Stiles insists. “No, no, no, it’s fine, but _fuck_.” Derek flinches, and Stiles gentles his tone. “What do we do about this? Do you need to go to a hospital or something?”

 

Derek shakes his head.

 

“It’s low grade. I’ll be fine. Doesn’t need to be burned out,” he murmurs. After a moment, he adds, “It got on the rug.”

 

Stiles looks where he’s looking, and there is indeed a blood stain on the small rug by the armchair.

 

God, the guy is shaking and coughing up blood and he’s worried about staining a rug that’s been here since Stiles moved in.

 

“I don’t care about the rug. I care about _you_. Do you know how to make this better?”

 

“Water,” Derek says. “I just need a little water.”

 

“Alright, Derek. Just stay here. It’s all gonna be fine. I promise.”

 

* * *

 

Derek starts to come back to himself a long while later, still sitting on the table and alternating between drinking water and swishing it around before spitting into an old mop bucket. Stiles is sitting cross-legged in front of him, speaking softly about something or other. Derek stopped listening a while ago, too preoccupied with his own thoughts, but he doesn’t think Stiles minds. The hand that isn’t holding the glass is wrapped up in Stiles’. Derek isn’t sure when that happened, but he doesn’t want to pull away.

 

He takes a few more moments to clear his head, and finally says, “Hey.”

 

Stiles’ gaze snaps up to him immediately, searching his eyes.

 

“Hi,” he says softly. Too softly. Like he’s afraid to break Derek. Set him off again. And the worst part is, he’s probably right to do so. “How you doing?”

 

“I’m back,” Derek says simply, shrugging.

 

“That’s good,” Stiles says, offering a smile. “How’s your mouth?”

 

Derek takes a swig of water, whooshing it around before spitting again. Some of it splatters on the carpet, and he doesn’t give a shit. At least, he tells himself that.

 

“Hurts,” he says. His voice sounds croaky. “But it’s nothing that won’t heal.”

 

“I don’t know how much attention you were paying, but I texted Scott and he asked his boss, Deaton, to be sure. He said the water is good, and it should heal on its own in about an hour. You were right; that stuff isn’t meant to permanently injure anyone.”

 

“Hurts like a bitch, though,” Derek mutters. “But I can already feel it healing.”

 

“I bet,” Stiles says, squeezing his hand. “But yeah, you’re gonna be fine. You had me worried for a minute there.”

 

“Sorry,” Derek says, and it’s supposed to come out casually, but instead it’s a sharp reminder of how pitiful he was acting just minutes ago. “I mean- It’s not. You didn’t… need to worry. I’ve had worse.”

 

He _has_ had worse. He’s had so, so much worse, worse pain and worse taunting, and both at the same time, and he never used to flip out like this. He never used to have panic attacks, at least not after he got used to his new life, or unless he was in private. But now Stiles is here, Stiles is _always_ here, and he actually _cares_ , and Derek hates it. He’s seen everyone in his pack collapse, and they’ve seen him upset and angry and hurt, but even his closest friends never got to see him break down as intimately as Stiles has. Really, the only people who’ve seen him at this level of vulnerability are Stiles and Kate. Something about that makes him feel sick.

 

“How do you feel about going for a car ride?” Stiles asks. “After you’re done healing, that is.”

 

Derek looks at him, surprised.

 

“Where to?”

 

“Nowhere,” Stiles says, shrugging. “It just might be nice to get some air. And car rides are good for clearing your head sometimes. We don’t have to talk unless you want to. I’ll just drive us around. That’s what I used to do for Scott sometimes when we were in college and he was getting really stressed in his bio program. We can even stop to get ice cream at the drive thru if you’re feeling up to it. Only if you want to, man. We can stay here, too, or I can give you some alone time.”

 

“It’s fine,” Derek says. He doesn’t mind getting out of this house for a while. “That sounds okay.”

 

* * *

 

When Derek says he’s mostly healed up, Stiles sends him out to the car with the promise that he’ll be out in two minutes. While he’s gone, Stiles opens all the windows in the house, turns on the fan, and grabs the room spray Lydia bought him—which he’s finally grateful for, despite it smelling like daisies—and sprays all around the first floor. He chucks the gag in the trash and takes the bag to the yard, and wipes down the table where Kate was sitting. He dumps the bucket of Derek’s bloody water into the toilet, and kicks the bucket into the hall closet. He has no idea how good Derek’s sense of smell is, but he spritzes himself with spray-on deodorant and cologne, too, while he’s at it.

 

**Stiles Stilinski [4:41 PM]**

_Can you and Danny do me a gigantic favor?_

 

**Lydia Martin [4:41 PM]**

_How gigantic?_

**Stiles Stilinski [4:41 PM]**

_This is going to sound super weird, but I don’t really have time to explain. Can you swing by my house and have Danny check if it smells like a person who isn’t me or Derek? A woman, if that means anything to him_

**Lydia Martin [4:42 PM]**

_I don’t think I even want to know. But I assume you wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important, so yes. Danny doesn’t mind either. What do we do if it does smell?_

**Stiles Stilinski [4:42 PM]**

_Uhh… I don’t know. Oh, God_

**Lydia Martin [4:42 PM]**

_Sighhhh_

_Danny says the drugstore sells some stuff that you can spray, and it’s usually strong enough to cover most scents, even to werewolves. Do you want me to pick up a bottle?_

**Stiles Stilinski [4:42 PM]**

_Oh man, yes, you are the love of my life_

**Lydia Martin [4:42 PM]**

_Thought we were past that stage, Stilinski_

**Stiles Stilinski [4:42 PM]**

_Ha. Ha. Ha._

_But seriously, thank you._

_Also, do you know how to get blood out of a carpet?_

**Lydia Martin [4:42 PM]**

_…Am I helping you cover up a murder?_

**Stiles Stilinski [4:42 PM]**

_There might’ve been one if that woman had stuck around much longer_

_But no, you’re good. My dad would totally get us off the hook anyway. But can you do it?_

**Lydia Martin [4:43 PM]**

_How lovely_

_And yes, I can_

_You’re ridiculous_

**Stiles Stilinski [4:43 PM]**

_And you’re wonderful_

_I’ve gotta go, me and Derek are going for a ride._

_Can you be done in like half an hour???_

**Lydia Martin [4:43 PM]**

_You’re wearing a suit to dinner, next time_

**Stiles Stilinski [4:43 PM]**

_I’ll wear one for the rest of eternity, dude_

_Tell Danny thank you too, I owe him one <3_

**Lydia Martin [4:44 PM]**

_Sure thing, weirdo_

_Ttyl_

* * *

“Sorry about that,” Stiles says, sliding into the driver’s seat. “I got a call from Lydia, had to tell her I was busy.”

 

Derek makes a vague noise.

 

Stiles pulls out of his spot and they drive in silence for a while, the radio playing on low volume. They get ice cream, too, which makes it even easier not to talk. For a while Derek stares out the windshield, and eventually he slumps against the door and stares out the passenger window instead.

 

They’re driving near the preserve, where there’s hardly any cars, and a quick glance to the side shows Stiles the liquidy vanilla running down Derek’s hand. He’s holding the cone so tight that there are cracks in it.

 

“Your ice cream is melting,” Stiles says after a while, just to say something.

 

In a low, empty voice, Derek answers, “Kate murdered my family.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. What a place to break it off, right? But it had to be split _somewhere_ , and everything will be resolved next chapter. I promise! I really, really hope you guys enjoyed, because chapters like this always make me nervous, but I had a good time writing it. I would absolutely love to hear your thoughts! Good luck to anyone starting the school year, by the way! <3
> 
>  **Warnings (this all sounds much darker when listed together like this, and some things are much less prominent or already present multiple times in the fic anyway, but here’s a catch-all for everything I think could bother people. If any of this is triggering for you, please put your own mental health first. If you’d like me to elaborate on something to see if you feel okay reading it, or feel the need to skip this chapter or certain parts, feel free to ask for either a brief, less graphic summary, or which parts you should skip):** mentions of past rape, false implications of current or future rape, run-in with a past abuser, humiliation, dehumanization, slut-shaming, helplessness/inability to defend oneself, panic attacks/flashbacks/being thrown into a past headspace, possible biphobia/homophobia. It follows the pattern of awaiting angst, angst, _heavy_ but brief angst, angst, comfort, cliffhanger that is angsty but something we're already aware of. There _is_ some relief in this chapter, and anything that's not resolved this chapter will be resolved next time, so don't worry about me leaving our babies hurting. Everything will be okay.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so remember when I said this chapter was going to be 5k because the other was 7? Turns out the other was _9,000 words_ (I know, right?), and this one is about 3 and a third. But uh… quality over quantity, yeah? I also apologize, as always, for the long wait. Life is… y’know. **Warning:** themes of last chapter continue into this one, but much more mildly. ANYWAY, I hope you guys enjoy  <3

Stiles almost swerves into a tree.

 

“I- _What_?” he demands, pulling over.

 

“Keep driving,” Derek orders.

 

He’s staring straight ahead. Uneasily, Stiles veers back onto the road.

 

“What are you talking about?” he asks, more gently this time.

 

“Kate,” Derek says firmly, “murdered my family. Ten people. Eight werewolves and two humans.” His voice sounds hard and mechanical. “Fifteen years ago. And it was my fault.”

 

Ideally, Stiles would like to assure him it wasn’t his fault—of course it’s not, it _can’t_ be, this is _Derek_ —but he doesn’t know the situation, and an _aw, bud, don’t be so hard on yourself_ doesn’t quite work when it comes to murder. He’s reminded, viciously, of Derek’s blue eyes.

 

“She and a few of her hunter friends circled the house in mountain ash and set it on fire,” Derek continues steadily. Hearing him speak so coldly gives Stiles chills. “My family burned to death. I could hear them screaming, could—” his breath catches for the first time— “smell them burning. One wolf was only two years old. Another was six. My sister and uncle and I were the only ones to get out. Laura became alpha when my mom died in the fire. And then my uncle, covered in burned flesh, his family dead, his clothes still flaming, slit her throat. To… _save_ her. From the fate of an alpha. And Kate stood there and _laughed_. Right outside the circle, just… laughing. I threw myself against the barrier, begging her to let us go, not understanding how it could all be happening. I-” He barks a laugh, sharp and bitter and hysterical, full of loathing, and it’s hard to tell if it’s directed at himself or Kate. “I _loved_ her. I didn’t get it. And then they tranq’d my uncle, and then me, and I woke up in Kate’s basement in a collar. My whole family was dead except the uncle who had just killed my sister right in front of me, and I was a slave, and I deserved it. It was my fault.”

 

Derek’s not wolfing out like he tends to when he’s distraught. He’s just sitting there. Sitting there and staring through the windshield, and Stiles finds himself feeling even more terrified than if Derek were wolfed out and snarling.

 

Stiles has talked his way out of plenty of uncomfortable situations before, especially with Derek, but even _he_ can’t think of anything to say right now.

 

He doesn’t know whether to consider it a relief when Derek starts talking again a few moments later.

 

“She was seven years older than me, twenty-two. I always thought I was so cool, that a hot, older woman wanted me. And now I was chained up in her basement, a registered slave in the state of California, with a dead family, with no idea what was happening, with an electrified collar around my neck. The first thing she did when I woke up was explain that with the exception of Peter, who was at an alpha facility, my entire family was dead; that as far as the press knew, my house accidentally went up in flames and that the survivors wolfed out and were taken into custody; and that I _belonged_ to her now. And then she spent months torturing me and fucking me and fucking with my mind until I was her perfect little slave. It was eight years before she sold me. 

 

“And now, she’s back in my life. And I’m as pathetic and weak as I was as a teenager, and she knows it. But it’s my fault. So you don’t- You don’t have to feel bad for me, or treat me like I don’t deserve it, or whatever else you do. I got my family killed, and I wish the world wasn’t like this for werewolves, but it _is_ , and if anyone deserves it, it’s me. So just… Don’t feel so bad. Any problems I have with her are my own fault.”

 

Derek doesn’t so much as shift in his seat when he’s finally finished talking. He just keeps looking out the window, like maybe if he does that, Stiles will take what he said at face value and leave him alone.

 

After a long, long time, Stiles manages to get past his horror enough to say, “I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t be. Not for me.”

 

“I am,” he says firmly. “I don’t know what involvement you had, how much of it was because of you or why, but I know you were a kid. You were a kid, and there is no one _stupider_ than fifteen-year-old boys. I was one more recently than you, and _believe_ me.”

 

“They do stupid stuff like wrecking their parents’ cars and getting in fist fights, stuff like-” And, finally, the emotion comes back. Voice low and ashamed, now, Derek finishes, “They don’t do stupid stuff that ends up getting people killed.”

 

“Not that it’s… _any_ of my business, but… I don’t get it, Derek. What part of this is _your_ fault? It sounds like you were just as much a victim as everyone else.”

 

“I didn’t directly do anything,” Derek says slowly. “But I made it incredibly easy for her to pull it all off. I was a stupid, naïve kid, and I let a hunter manipulate me. We met in the woods by my house one day. I thought she was beautiful, and smart, and funny. I was head over heels for her immediately, and it only got worse when she kept coming by. I thought I was unbelievably lucky when she asked me out, even though looking back on it, it was obviously a setup. She was reporting back to other hunters every step of the way. This was her big chance to prove herself as a serious hunter. We dated for a while.” He sounds pained as he continues. “We had sex a lot. I thought it was great, of course, because I was a horny little teenager, and she was gorgeous. She would put me down most of the time, make me feel bad about myself, but I was too blind to realize that she was just trying to make me want her more, try to please her more. By the time she revealed that she was from a family of hunters, I didn’t even _care_.

 

“I thought we were _in love_ ,” he continues bitterly. “So when she spilled her big secret, told me she trusted me enough to tell me something she was ‘ashamed’ of, I was more than willing to return the favor. She said she hated what her family did, that she wanted to escape that life, and I ate up every word. It sounded so perfect. A werewolf and a reformed hunter? I never told my family about her because I thought they wouldn’t get it. I thought they’d misjudge her. It was like some sick, forbidden romance. Not long after that, I told her I was a werewolf, that most of my family was. She was already pretty sure, but that was all she needed. Three days later, she set the fire. If I wasn’t so ridiculously, willfully blind to the dangers, none of it would’ve happened. If I didn’t tell… a fucking… _hunter_ …” he grits out, “that all those werewolves were living in one house… None of this would’ve happened. I got my entire family killed for some stupid teenage romance that wasn’t even _real_.”

 

Stiles pulls over to the side of the road again.

 

“What’re you doing?” Derek asks.

 

His voice is gruff, defensive. Maybe a little afraid.

 

“I’m going to crash the car if I try to keep driving. And I want to look at you, Derek.”

 

* * *

 

Stiles turns in his seat to face Derek, but Derek doesn’t reciprocate. Can’t bring himself to.

 

He feels terrible, being laid bare like this. The only other people who know that story are Isaac, Erica, Boyd, and Kate herself. Telling it feels like reliving some distant nightmare, something that’s too terrible and ridiculous to even have happened.

 

“Can you… look at me?” Stiles asks hesitantly.

 

Derek draws his arms tighter across his chest. It might look menacing, but it’s more defensive than anything else. Slowly, slowly, he angles himself a little more towards Stiles. It’s easier than it should be to keep his face blank, but he feels numb. Empty.

 

“I want you to listen to me,” Stiles says softly. “Don’t… interrupt, okay? Just let me talk for a second.”

 

Derek gives a sharp, jerking nod.

 

“Good,” Stiles says. He blows out a long puff of air. “Okay. Okay, listen. I know people have probably said this to you before, and I know you don’t believe it, but Derek, based on what you told me, that was not your fault.” Derek opens his mouth to object, to snap that yes, it fucking _was_ , but Stiles holds up a finger. “ _Listen_ to me. I know you’re not going to believe it, that you’ve been feeling a certain way for a long time and you’re probably not going to stop anytime soon, but I’m going to say it anyway. That. Was. Not. Your. Fault. Kate was a full grown woman, and clearly a master manipulator, and you were a _kid_. You said it yourself. She was beautiful, and funny, and _clearly_ she was smart. That woman knew exactly what she was doing every step of the way, and even if you hadn’t admitted what you were, someone as evil as her would’ve figured out a way to get what they wanted anyway. I’m not saying it was the best decision anyone’s ever made, but I bet it’s one a lot of people would have. If they had sent someone else in to seduce one of your other family members, they could’ve fallen into the trap just as easily.”

 

Derek’s stomach twists at the idea of this happening to one of his sisters.

 

“I understand that you shouldn’t have told her you were a werewolf, but even if, _if_ , you had the slightest inkling that she was a willing, professional hunter herself, there is no _way_ you could’ve known she would take it that far. Hunters aren’t supposed to go around _killing_ people. The extent of their job is to hunt down feral wolves and to smoke out hidden ones. They’re not allowed to just _kill_ people. I mean… not that it should make _any_ difference, but you said she even killed two humans. I’m afraid to ask what the laws are about werewolves, but you can’t just straight up murder human beings. I don’t know how she’s not in _jail_ for that, but- This woman is just… She’s a killer. Plain and simple. And someone like _her_ will kill people even if they don’t get the help they’re looking for. She’s a sadistic bitch, and it’s not. Your. Fault. You didn’t give her the idea, you didn’t lay the mountain ash, and you didn’t light the match.”

 

“You don’t _get_ it,” Derek insists. Because Stiles doesn’t. It’s easy for him to sit there and say it could’ve happened to anyone, but he doesn’t understand what it’s _like_ to get your family killed. No one does, and no one should have to. “You don’t have _any_ idea what it’s like to feel like you killed your family. There’s no way around that, Stiles.”

 

“I don’t,” Stiles says. He looks so tired, all the sudden. “But I know what it’s like to feel like someone’s suffering is your fault. My mom died when I was a kid. She had frontotemporal dementia, so she had hallucinations. She thought I was trying to hurt her. Trying to _kill_ her. I found her on the roof of the hospital one night, standing by the edge. My dad was talking to her, and they didn’t see me yet. She said she couldn’t go back to her room with the way I was looking at her. Dad tried to tell her it was just the disease, that I was just ten years old, but she didn’t believe him. She was crying, sobbing, standing on the ledge… because of _me_. And when she saw me there she charged me, clawed at me, and my dad had to pull her off. I don’t know which of us was crying harder. She never looked at me quite the same after that. Even in her better moments, I couldn’t bring myself to look at _her_ the same. To look at her at all, sometimes, considering she saw me as some monster. I was a loud kid, kind of annoying and excitable and all over the place—some things never change, I guess—and I know that didn’t make anything better. I didn’t visit as often as I should have after that, and I regret it every day.

 

“For a long time I felt it was my fault. Yeah, the disease was causing hallucinations, but why _me_? Why not my dad, or the doctors, or nurses, or anyone but her own child? I thought it had to be something I was doing. It had to be that she always saw me as a monster anyway, and this just topped it all off. It had to be that I was doing something to make my sick mother so, so much worse. Maybe if I was just better behaved, if I didn’t cause so much trouble, if I stayed away from her, it would be better. And I did, and then she died, and she suffered the whole time anyway. And then my dad started drowning his problems in liquor, and he might as well have been dead too for a while there. I even overheard him tell Scott’s mom as much. And I was _terrified_. I felt like I caused my mom all this misery, and that every little toe I stepped out of line was doing the same to my father. I was even afraid that with the amount he was drinking, if I caused too much trouble, well… You get the picture. I know it’s not the same, I know it’s better now, I know better about the whole _situation_ now, but still. I know what it’s like to feel guilty for years over something that wasn’t your fault. Something that could’ve happened to anyone, but you had the misfortune of having happen to _you_. And I also know things get better, Derek. I miss my mom every day, I still feel guilty sometimes, but things got better. My dad doesn’t drink much anymore. The panic attacks I used to always get after she died have subsided. It’s not that overwhelming, _crushing_ feeling anymore.

 

“And I know, Derek. I know I could never understand what losing your entire family is like, especially in a situation like yours. I _don’t_ understand. There was no one there manipulating me, no one twisting it from the beginning to make me feel like it was my fault, no systematically rigged force working against me. I’m not trying to detract from what you went through, because I could never even begin to imagine it, but I want you to know that you’re not alone in the world. You’re not the first person to have survivor’s guilt.  You’re not the first person to feel like everything was his fault, and not the first person to wrongly feel that way, either. What happened to you was horrible, and there’s no way around that. But I hope you can recognize it as something that happened _to_ you. It wasn’t something you knowingly _did_. You weren’t the villain. You were the victim. Can you promise me that you’ll at least try to accept that, even some small part of you? Because I care about you so much, Derek, and the thought of you blaming yourself kills me.”

 

Derek realizes, belatedly, there are tears pooling in his eyes.

 

 _God, Derek, are you ever going to stop sniffling? Life is hard, change is scary, blah, blah, blah. I get it, sweetheart, but_ geez. _You don’t have to be this pathetic_ all _the time._

 

For once, he doesn’t give a shit. He spent years suppressing his emotions, and he’s allowed to miss his fucking family. He’s allowed to be sad for Stiles. He’s allowed to be a human being.

 

“Derek?” Stiles says tentatively, when he remains silent.

 

“Let’s go home,” Derek says finally, wiping roughly at his eyes. He’s sick of crying. The only thing he can do now is make this right with the one family member he has left, and that’s what he’s going to do. “Please.”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles says softly. “Yeah, of course.”

 

* * *

 

The ride home passes in a thick silence, and Derek catches Stiles shooting him sidelong glances every few minutes. He doesn’t comment, though. He doesn’t know what to say.

 

When they get in the house, the first thing Derek notices is that Kate’s scent is totally gone. In its place is a fresh, clean smell. Derek steps further into the living room to be sure, but he doesn’t pick up on anything. His chest tightens strangely when he notices that even the blood stain on the carpet seems to be gone.

 

He turns to Stiles, eyebrow raised expectantly.

 

“I called in a few favors,” Stiles says, looking sheepish. “I hope you don’t mind, I just figured it’d be better if-”

 

He’s interrupted by Derek crossing the room in two quick strides and pulling him in for a hug. Stiles is tense for a moment, but then he practically melts against Derek, and pats his back gently.

 

“Thank you,” Derek murmurs. “For everything. Just- thank you.”

 

Stiles’ heartbeat kicks up, and his breath catches in his throat. Derek is shocked when he smells tears.

 

“Of course, Der,” Stiles says, softly. “I love you, dude. You’re one of my best friends, and I genuinely can’t express to you how sorry I am that you’ve had to deal with such an absolutely astronomical amount of shit in life. No one deserves that, let alone someone like you. I know if must be hard for you to see, but I promise you, that fire is not something you should be blaming yourself for. If slaves are freed in my lifetime, I don’t care how long it takes, you and I are going to take that fucker to court and prosecute the hell out of her. My dad’s a cop, Scott’s dad’s in the FBI, and we _will_ get her. I swear to you, Derek.”

 

Slowly, Derek releases him, and Stiles squeezes his arm firmly before taking a step back.

 

“Believe me?”

 

Derek nods, his throat tight.

 

“Good,” Stiles says, offering a sad smile. “Because I _promise_.”

 

Derek thinks, for a wild moment, about telling Stiles about Cora. He left her out of the story before because frankly, he doesn't know _what_ happened to her, and he couldn't mention it anyway. Stiles deserves to hear it, though. He would understand, probably. But Derek just _can’t_. Stiles would be okay with him leaving, he’s pretty sure. But that doesn’t mean he could let him. Not only would Stiles be worried about what would happen to Derek if he were caught, but he himself could go to jail for illegally freeing a slave. And Derek, quite frankly, doesn’t think he could look Stiles in the eye while he _forbids_ him from doing something. Even if he could live his life relatively happy here, it’s not fair to Cora. She deserves to be free, and Derek will do _anything_ to make that happen for his baby sister.

 

Instead he just nods again, and promises himself he _will_ write Stiles that goodbye letter he was debating.

 

“Come on,” Stiles says. “You go sit on the couch. You let that ice cream go to waste earlier, so I’m going to bring us some of those cookies you like instead. Chocolate makes everything better, right?”

 

“Thanks,” Derek says, sounding tired and worn. Still, he manages to muster up a grateful smile. “You’re the best.”

 

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Stiles says, winking before heading off to the kitchen.

 

Warmth flutters in Derek’s chest, and goddammit, he’s really, _really_ going to miss Stiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. Deep breaths. Next chapter will have another nice moment for Derek/continue to fix the events of last chapter, because Derek deserves _all_ the good things in the world. I hope you enjoyed, and as always, your thoughts are appreciated!  
>  *For anyone who didn't watch season five, the scene with Stiles' mother on the roof is canon.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're meeting a new character this chapter! I introduced him super briefly two chapters ago, and if you don't remember (or if you read the chapter /very/ soon after its posting, before I changed the name to suit a different plotline), I included the original description in the end notes if you want, since you'd suffer trying to go back and find it yourselves ;) Enjoy!

“Hello?” Stiles calls, entering the seemingly empty shop. “Anyone here?”

 

“Back here,” a male voice announces, a few seconds before the Asian man from yesterday steps out from where he was squatting behind a set of shelves. Upon seeing Stiles, he frowns. “Can I help you?”

 

“It’s Ken, right?” Stiles asks.

 

“Mr. Yukimura,” the man says firmly.

 

“Oh, of course.” Great. He’s already stuck his foot in his mouth. “My bad. It’s just that Derek called you Ken, and I-”

 

“Oh?” Mr. Yukimura asks, raising an eyebrow as he turns back to the shelves with his price gun. “So you don’t keep him muzzled like a dog _all_ day, hmm?”

 

Stiles blinks, taken aback.

 

“No, actually, I-”

 

“Just take him for laps around town like that, then,” Mr. Yukimura continues bitterly. “Have to make sure everyone knows exactly what he is, right?”

 

“I really don’t think-” Stiles tries again, but Mr. Yukimura is clearly not having it.

 

“Listen to me,” he says harshly. “You have the right to your _property_ , and I have the right to free speech. This is my store. If you don’t like it, you can go somewhere else. But Derek is a nice young man, and you must be a very insecure person if you feel the need to dress him up like that for a walk around town. I don’t know if he was recently turned, if you’ve had him for a while, or _what_ , but I have no interest in your business. I hear there’s a wonderful fruit store on 37th street. I’m sure they’d be happy to have your patronage.”

 

The click of the gun is particularly loud as he forcefully labels something 99 cents.

 

“ _Wait_ ,” Stiles says. “Wait, no, you’ve got it all wrong. Let me explain.”

 

Ken stands and turns back around, crossing his arms as he raises an expectant eyebrow.

 

“Okay,” Stiles goes on. “I know what it looked like, but that wasn’t it at all. I promise. Derek’s a good guy, you’re right. That’s why he’s my friend.”

 

“I imagine you’re not too good at holding onto friends, then,” Ken grumbles.

 

“No, I- He’s my _friend_ , and yesterday wasn’t my decision. I had his collar removed, and I had no choice but to have an appointment with the facility to check on his behavior without it. It’s Argent company policy. You can look it up if you want. I wish _I_ had. But seriously, I care about Derek a lot, and I never would have put him through it if I didn’t absolutely have to. I actually came over here in the first place because you’re pretty much the only human besides me he seems to genuinely like, and I saw how you reacted to him.”

 

Ken frowns, but his stance loosens a little.

 

“He never mentioned you. Not once.”

 

“He probably didn’t want you to know he was a slave. It’s not exactly something he brags about. I assume he was afraid you would treat him differently, and after yesterday… Well, I came here to make sure you wouldn’t. Clearly I’m having the opposite problem.”

 

Ken’s face falls a little, looking more guilty than angry now.

 

“Did Derek say something?”

 

“About you? No, but he looked so embarrassed passing your shop yesterday. I know you didn’t mean to make him feel bad, and nothing about that situation was your fault, but I was just hoping to make sure you and Derek were still cool. Like you said, he’s still a person.”

 

“I’m sorry he felt that way,” Mr. Yukimura says. “I didn’t mean to upset him, I was just surprised. I wish I could speak to him. Do you think he would come back here?”

 

“I don’t know,” Stiles says. “I’ll see what I can do. But uh… Wow. Thanks for being so understanding. He doesn’t have a lot of people like that in his life, so… It means a lot.”

 

“Of course. Derek is a good man. I hope he thinks the same about me.”

 

“He does,” Stiles says, starting for the door. “I’m sure of it. I’ve really gotta go, but again, you’re great. See you around, Mr. Yukimura. Have a good day.”

 

“You too. And Stiles?”

 

“Yeah?” Stiles asks, stopping halfway out the door.

 

Mr. Yukimura smiles for the first time. 

 

“You can call me Ken.”

 

* * *

 

Derek must stand outside the shop for five minutes, just debating what to do. Of course Stiles had to pick today of all days to ask him to pick up some apples. He could always turn around, though. Go back home and pretend nothing happened. That the store was closed or something.

 

But he always liked Ken. Ken was a nice guy. And hey, if he kicks Derek out… Well. It would sting. But he would survive. It’s not like the guy could hurt him, and if things go south, Derek can always just leave. Stiles will just have to do the fruit shopping from now on.

 

Taking a deep breath, he pushes the heavy glass door open. The chimes hanging above it sound ridiculously loud in Derek’s ears.

 

The store is small, and the entire thing, minus the back room, can be seen right from the entrance. That, of course, includes Ken.

 

He’s squatting in front of the counter, rearranging the candy display, but he turns around when Derek enters.

 

Against all odds, Ken smiles.

 

“Derek,” he says warmly. “It’s so good to see you.”

 

Derek’s eyes widen in surprise as Ken stands and walks over, setting a hand on his shoulder and steering him towards the counter. There’s a stool by the window and Ken pulls it over, ushering Derek into it. He abandons the boxes he was unpacking in favor of walking around the other side of the register and sitting on a stool of his own.

 

“I was worried I wouldn’t see you back here,” Ken goes on, sounding genuinely concerned. “You… saw me the other day, I assume.”

 

“Yeah,” Derek says, then clears his throat. “Yeah, I uh...”

 

“That boy Stiles told me a little bit,” Ken says, when Derek doesn’t go on. “He came here to make a case for you. I don’t know if he told you, but he was quite determined that I not think any less of you.” Part of Derek is embarrassed, but he doesn’t think he could ask for a better friend than Stiles. “Not that I needed any convincing, Derek. All those stories I told you about my wife… I suppose I never mentioned she was a werewolf, did I?”

 

Derek stares at him in shock.

 

“I didn’t know she was a wolf when we got married, but I didn’t mind when she told me two years later. Love is love.” Ken sighs, looking away for a moment. “Then we had our little girl, and she turned out to be a wolf too. One day, when my baby was six years old, Noshiko took her for a drive. A drunk driver crashed into them in broad daylight. Noshiko died on impact, and my daughter was panicking, so she shifted right in front of the paramedics. I was away visiting family, and by the time I was called, she was already healed and was at a werewolf facility, but they wouldn’t let me see her. They said they were investigating whether I was knowingly harboring two werewolves, and that she wasn’t ‘my child’ anymore because she wasn’t human. They sold her, and… I haven’t seen her since. They wouldn’t even tell me who bought her. Something to do with their privacy policy. So whatever you’ve been through, whatever prejudices people have against you… Well. You’ve listened to me yammer on about how much I loved Noshiko for hours.” His eyes are sad, but he manages a smile. “They make no difference to me. I’m glad you came back, Derek.”

 

For a few moments, Derek is at a loss. Finally, he manages, “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

 

“Me too,” Ken says. “But loss helps you grow. As you well know, my wife and I had many adventures. I loved her very much, and I miss her every day. But now, here I am with you. And I get to be friends with another werewolf. To meet another good soul who so many would overlook. It’s something.” With a small smile, he adds, “I hope you don’t mind me calling us friends. I’d like to think we are.”

 

 

“Of course. Thank you for… giving me a chance. Like you said, a lot of people wouldn’t.”

 

“A lot of people are asshats,” Ken says calmly. “That’s what Noshiko used to say. That was mostly about the neighbors who would leave their trash in our bins, but I think it applies to a lot of life situations, wouldn’t you agree?”

 

Derek laughs.

 

“She sounds like a smart woman.”

 

“Feisty,” Ken says, looking fond. “She dealt with a lot in her time, and it showed. But she loved life. It’s a shame she always had to have that fear in the back of her mind. That Stiles fellow seemed pretty nice. I hope he’s treating you okay. Please tell me if he’s not.” He reaches into one of the boxes sitting behind the counter and pulls out a candy bar. “Eat this,” he adds. “No one needs to be that muscular.”

 

“Thank you,” Derek says sheepishly, unwrapping it and snapping off a piece. “And he is. Stiles is a good guy. I wouldn’t have been in that position Tuesday if it were up to him, but that’s a long story.”

 

“I’m always here for long stories,” Ken says. “Heaven knows I’ve told you enough. But I’m very glad to hear that’s not normal treatment for you. Whenever I see a wolf in a bad position, I can’t help worrying about my daughter. Let me show you a picture. I always avoided it, didn’t want to get into the history. Guess we were both a little worried about our entanglement in the world of werewolves being found out, huh? People are too judgmental in this world.”

 

He shuffles around in a drawer before he produces a few faded photographs.

 

“Here,” Ken says, sliding them across the counter. “This is my wife, of course, and that’s the day our daughter was born.” He fans out the photos so they’re sitting in a line. “And this is every birthday up to her sixth.”

 

The girl in the photos is adorable, with her bright smiles and little dresses. There’s one of her on a brand new bike, and one with her blowing out the candles on an orange cake shaped like a fox. The most interesting one, though, is the last. She’s the oldest there, and she looks a lot like...

 

“Her name isn’t… Kira, is it?” Derek asks slowly. “Or… Kara? Kira?”

 

“Kira,” Ken says, looking as shocked as Derek feels. “Kira Yukimura.”

 

That’s her, then. How funny that he was thinking of her just a few weeks ago. She was that girl who told Erica that Matt wanted to see her in the middle of the night, right before the lot of them got traded away.

 

“I know her,” Derek says. “I mean,” he adds quickly, “not anymore, but I used to. She was still in California at that point, but that was years ago.”

 

“Do you know where I could find her?” Ken asks, leaning forward intently. “Have you heard from her since then?”

 

“I’m sorry, all I know is that we lived in the same house for a while,” Derek says. “But maybe I could help you find her? We belonged to a guy named Matt Daehler. He might still own her, or if he doesn’t, I bet you could get the buyer out of him. If he sold her back to the auction house I don’t know what you could do, but… It’s something.”

 

Derek knows exactly how hard it is to find a slave in the system, but if he can at least help put Ken on the right path to finding his daughter, that would mean a lot.

 

“It is something,” Ken says, looking immeasurably pleased. “More than I’ve had in years. I've tried looking for her in a lot of auctions, but I've never been able to find her. Matt… what was that? If I looked him up online, could you point him out to me?”

 

“Look up Daehler Photos,” Derek suggests. 'He ran a big photography business, and I’m sure he had a website with contact details.”

 

“That’s wonderful,” Ken says excitedly, passing Derek a roll of receipt paper and a pen. “Could you spell that name for me?”

 

Derek writes down Matt’s last name and passes the paper back.

 

“Do you have some extra cash?” he asks. “Matt wasn’t… a nice man. A bribe would probably make him a lot more willing to tell you about Kira.”

 

“I’m sure I can scrounge some up. And I still get my pension from my teaching days. Nothing is more important than my little girl.” Hesitantly, he adds, “You said this Matt is a bad person?”

 

Derek bites the inside of his cheek.

 

“He wasn’t… the worst,” he says, trying to sound comforting. There’s no point in lying, though. “There are worse people out there. He was mean, and he could be violent, but… I’m sure Kira is okay, Ken. She always flew under the radar while I lived there. Like I said, I barely knew her name. That’s exactly how you want to be when you’re a slave.”

 

Ken scrubs a hand over his face, then leans against the counter.

 

“I hope so,” he says. “She was very bad at controlling her shift when she was a child. Nothing we did could help, and it’s not like we could ask some kind of professional for help. I’ve always worried that that might’ve made her childhood very hard.”

 

“She was a teenager the last time I saw her, and she must’ve had it under control by then,” Derek says. “But I understand why you’re concerned. It probably wasn’t the best for her, but maybe she had a good owner. You never know. She could be with someone great right now, too, if she’s not with Matt anymore. Someone like Stiles, even.”

 

“I hope so,” Ken murmurs. “I worry about her every day. I know she heals physically, but I don't want her to hurt for even a moment, and I can’t take the thought of what they might be doing to her psychologically. She was such a happy child.”

 

Derek remembers her standing in the doorway of their quarters, looking sad and scared as she told Erica that Matt wanted to see her. He really, really hopes she wasn’t next on Matt’s list. Or that she hadn’t been before.

 

“I’m sure it’ll be alright,” Derek says. “When you get ahold of Matt, don’t tell him you’re her dad. Even if he asks. Especially if he asks. It’ll just make him more reluctant to sell her; he’s not one for sympathy. He’d definitely charge you a fortune for her, too, if you had a reason to really want her.”

 

“You’re right. That’s a good idea.”

 

“Yeah. And… there’s no easy way to say this, but… if he makes sexual comments? Implies you want to buy her for something like that, or makes comments about himself and her? You can’t freak out. If you offend him, he’s not going to want to do business. I know it’s terrible, but…”

 

Ken doesn’t say anything. He grips the counter till his knuckles turn white, the scents of fear and anger wafting off him in equal amounts.

 

“I don’t know if I could handle that,” he says finally.

 

“You have to,” Derek says, trying to sound encouraging. “And you can. For Kira, you can.”

 

Ken huffs, starting to absentmindedly rearrange items near the register.

 

Derek’s about to reassure him again when a customer walks in. The two of them are silent as the woman gathers a few items around the store before bringing them to the counter. She gives Derek a wry smile, like she senses the heavy mood in the air. The chimes over the door ring merrily when she leaves, and Ken heaves a sigh.

 

“I would do _anything_ for Kira,” he says. “God, I wonder if she would even recognize me. She was so young.”

 

“It doesn’t matter, really. You’re still her dad. She’ll still love you.”

 

“I hope so. I’m worried she’ll be mad at me. God only knows what those people told her. She might think something crazy, like I never came for her because I didn’t care.”

 

“You can explain it to her. She’ll understand, Ken. She’s been in the system a long time, she knows what it’s like.”

 

Ken takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly.

 

“You’re right. Of course you are. It’s just... I don’t know _how_ to feel. I never thought I’d be able to see Kira again.”

 

“You might not,” Derek warns. “I’m not trying to be a downer, just realistic. Matt might not even own her anymore, and he might not know who does. I don’t want to get your hopes up.”

 

“It’s too late for that,” Ken says, a small smile crossing his face. “Sometimes hope is all you can have. Frankly, I’m just glad to hear she was alive and okay somewhat recently. It’s something, and I appreciate it.”

 

“Of course, Ken. Let me know how it goes. I’ll try to stop in a few more times this week in case you need advice.” 

 

“Thank you, Derek. I’m glad you stopped by. I’m glad we’re still friends.”

 

Not as glad as Derek is.

 

* * *

 

Derek sets his keys on the side table as he comes in the door, and listens for Stiles. He hears him typing in the kitchen and joins him there, nodding a quick greeting before walking to the produce bowl, arranging the fruit Ken had given him in gratitude.

 

“Have a good time out?” Stiles asks nonchalantly.

 

His heart is beating fast.

 

“It was good,” Derek says, turning to face him. He can’t hide his smile. “Thank you, Stiles.”

 

“I dunno what you’re talking about,” Stiles says, standing and brushing shoulders with him as he picks up an apple. He winks as he takes a bite, smiling in return when he swallows. “I just wanted some fruit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will presumably be the last update of 2016, so I hope everyone has/had happy holidays and will have a nice New Year. Thank you guys _a ton_ for sticking with me for so long. You're all wonderful, and I love you. Here's to finally finishing this fic in 2017! :P 
> 
> **Reminder of who Ken is:** Stiles’ heart sinks as they pass a grocer—Ken? Stiles thinks that’s his name—standing outside his store on Main. He remembers Derek talking fondly about the man, how nice he is, how he gives Derek free apples sometimes in exchange for hanging around to listen to him talk about his dead wife. He’s one of the select few humans Derek likes, and that means Stiles loves the guy, even if he’s not 100% sure on his name. Probably-Ken is watching them as they pass, and if his gaping mouth is anything to go by, he recognizes Derek. Kate doesn’t sense anything’s wrong, or maybe doesn’t care, but Stiles looks over his shoulder to see Derek squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. When he sees Stiles looking, he ducks his head as far as he can.


	33. Chapter 33

“Are you sure you can’t come?” Danny asks. “It’ll be fun.”

 

“I have too much work,” Jackson says, rummaging through the desk in his home-office. “Have you seen my stapler?”

 

“Yeah, Jax, ‘cause I have so many things to staple. And are you  _sure_? You have the whole weekend off."

 

“Ha, ha. And yes, because I’d like to relax on my weekend off, not catch up on missed work. Besides, I saw Stilinski a few weeks ago, and I think I make Derek uncomfortable.”

 

“He’ll never be comfortable around you if you don’t spend time together,” Danny reasons.

 

Jackson sighs, though he perks up for a moment when he finds the missing stapler.

 

“Listen. I want you to go and have a good time, alright? But Derek’s been through some shit lately, and I doubt he wants to see any more humans for a few days. He has no reason to like me, and I think you could all use some fun, so… Just go, man.”

 

“But Stiles  _invited_  you. It’s not like he doesn’t want you there.”

 

“But did he consult Derek first?”

 

“Uh…actually, yeah. I would assume he did.”

 

“Whatever,” Jackson says. “Trust me, I’m not going to be sitting here crying that I’m home. I’m going to get my work done and then maybe Lydia and I can have some alone time.”

 

“ _Ah_ ,” Danny says, amused. “You  _say_  it’s for Derek, but really you just wanna get it on, huh?”

 

“It  _is_  because of Derek,” Jackson huffs. “And if that’s part of it, can you blame me? It’s not easy to get some time to ourselves, and sex in a house with two people with superhuman hearing is…  _disturbing._ ”

 

“ _You_  think it’s disturbing? I don’t even  _want_  to know what you guys were getting up to last week when-”

 

He’s cut off by Jackson crumbling what may or may not be an important memo and throwing it at him.

 

“Shut up!”

 

“Kidding, kidding!” Danny laughs. He tosses the paper, which he’d snatched out of midair, into the trash. “Trust me, dude. The last thing two gay guys are doing is sitting around listening to you two bone.”

 

Jackson rolls his eyes, then determinedly trains them on his computer.

 

“You’re gonna be late to lunch, Danny. Just  _go_. Tell Derek and Stilinski I said hey, alright? Maybe we’ll have them over soon.”

 

“Alright, alright,” Danny relents, putting his hands up in surrender. “But only because I know Ethan’s probably waiting downstairs all anxiously. See you later. You want me to bring you back something?”

 

“Maybe some fettuccine? Did you ask Lydia?”

 

“Nah, but I will on my way downstairs.”

 

“Alright,” Jackson says, reaching into his pocket. “Lemme give you some cash. Do you know if Ethan’s running short?”

 

“I doubt it. He tries to be really thrifty. I always tell him you guys don’t mind when we spend money, but you know how he is. He can’t get used to everything overnight.”

 

“Yeah, I know,” Jackson says, pulling a wad of bills from his wallet. “Give him half of this, will you?”

 

“Sure,” Danny says, taking the money and folding it into his own wallet. “Thanks, Jackson. Enjoy your  _alone time_.”

 

Jackson groans loudly, and Danny just laughs as he heads from the room.

  

* * *

 

 

“Do you want me to drive you?” Lydia asks, glancing up from the math problem she’s been working on for the past fifteen minutes.

 

“It’s fine,” Ethan says, shrugging. “We can walk.”

 

“It’s a few miles, isn’t it? What time are you supposed to be there?”

 

“Soon,” Ethan says, checking the watch they’d gotten him. A  _wristwatch._  That’s a thing he somehow has. “We’ll, uh… speedwalk.”

 

Lydia fixes him with a look.

 

“Really, Ethan?”

 

He knows she doesn’t mean anything by it—she’s trying to  _help_  him, after all—but an owner glaring at him still makes his skin crawl just a little.

 

“It’s fine, Lydia,” he says. “You’re doing work, anyway.”

 

“I’m driving myself up the wall, so I might as well drive you to lunch. I absolutely cannot figure this out, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to tutor today if I can’t do the damn math myself. It’s not even a hard problem, it’s just…  _Ugh_.”

 

“Can I see?”

 

Lydia raises her eyebrows.

 

“You like math?”

 

Ethan smirks, walking over to sit beside her on the couch.

 

“Nah, no one ever bothered to teach me much,” he says. “Calculus is definitely out of my league, but I find it amusing to watch you mess around with what is, for some reason, 90% letters.”

 

“Well, it’s just finding the fourth derivative,” Lydia explains. “It shouldn’t be difficult for someone hoping for a Field’s Medal, I’ll tell you that.”

 

Ethan looks over the paper, and it might as well be another language. A really  _gross_ language, at that. But…

 

“You turned this four into a nine,” he says, pointing at the third line.

 

“What?” she demands, squinting at the paper. “Did I take the  _first_  derivative wrong?”

 

“No idea about that,” Ethan says. “But uh, I think you just made the top of the four a little too round and then you copied it wrong.”

 

Lydia continues to stare at the paper, then blinks up at him, then throws herself back against the couch.

 

“Well, fuck,” she mutters. “I’m surprised I even got this far, then. Thanks, Ethan. You just saved me another half hour of staring at this, and having it pointed out to me by a kid failing basic calculus.”

 

“No problem,” Ethan says. “I-”

 

He’s cut off by Danny thumping downstairs, yelling, “Lyds, Italian?”

 

“I’m good,” Lydia tells him when he enters the room. “Did you ask Jackson?”

 

“You two are so  _married_ ,” Danny says with mock disgust. “Yes, I did, and he said to ask you. Now I guess I have no incentive, but does the prettiest, smartest, most wonderful woman in the world want to drive us to the restaurant anyway? We’re running a little late.”

 

Dammit. Ethan hopes he’s that comfortable around her and Jackson one day, to be able to ask for favors like it’s no big deal.

 

“I was just telling Ethan I would,” Lydia says easily. “Especially now that he saved me from pulling my hair out over calc one.”

 

“Knew you were good for something,” Danny says, winking as he grabs Ethan’s hand and pulls him off the couch. “Let’s get going.”

 

Ethan still gets butterflies when Danny holds his hand, and he hopes one day he’ll be fully comfortable with having a  _boyfriend_ , too.

  

* * *

 

 

“You’re  _what_?”

 

“Dating,” Danny says, reaching over to set his hand on top of Ethan’s.

 

Stiles flops back against the booth, grinning brightly. Next to him, Derek has to duck his head at the sight to keep from smiling himself.

 

“How long has this been a thing?” Stiles asks, looking intrigued as he leans forward again. “Does Jackson know?”

 

“Around a week,” Danny says. “And uh… surprisingly, no.”

 

“What? Why? Dude, he’s your best friend. What about Lydia?”

 

“Neither of them. I was actually hoping we could get some advice on how to tell them. I mean… this is kind of uncharted territory. And uh…”

 

“I’m nervous,” Ethan says bluntly. He’s looking at Derek, not Stiles, who he still doesn’t seem entirely comfortable around. “I don’t know what they’ll say.”

 

“There’s nothing to be worried about,” Danny says, squeezing Ethan’s hand. “Lydia and Jackson will be totally cool with it.”

 

Derek is surprised to hear his heartbeat pick up just slightly. Ethan must have been hearing it trip under Danny’s assurances all week.

 

“They totally will,” Stiles agrees. “Hell, they’ll probably be ecstatic. The whole reason they wanted another werewolf was so you’d have someone to keep you company. A boyfriend is pretty good company, if you ask me.”

 

Ethan sighs, using his free hand to idly twirl pasta around his fork.

 

“I don’t know. I don’t know  _why_  they would disapprove. I just don’t want to deal with it if they do. Is it that big of a deal to wait a while?”

 

“You know I don’t mind waiting,” Danny says. “I just don’t want to wait  _forever_. We all live in the same house. They’re bound to notice sooner or later, aren’t they?” To Stiles, he adds, “Sorry we’re dumping this on you. I know this probably isn’t what you had in mind when you invited us out for lunch.”

 

“Whoa, man, no,” Stiles says, shaking his head. “I just don’t know what to say. The only advice I can really give is that I would be totally cool with it if Derek came home with a girlfriend.” Then  _his_  heart trips, and Derek is even more confused. “Like, he’s his own person, he can do what he wants as long as he’s keeping himself safe. Jackson loves you, Danny, and I’m sure they’re well on their way with you, Ethan. I really have zero experience in this area, but maybe Derek has some idea?”

 

Derek can’t help but be amused that anyone would ever think to ask  _him_  for relationship advice.

 

He’s silent for a moment as he chews a bite of his pizza, then he shrugs, saying, “I really can’t speak from experience. Most slaves I knew tried to keep their relationships a secret. Revealing them could be dangerous, and there was really no benefit.”

 

“Exactly,” Ethan mutters.

 

“But your situation is  _different_  now,” Derek adds. “Jackson and Lydia seem nice. I can’t see them kicking you out or something, and they really have no way to separate you.”

 

“Well that’d be really extreme, I don’t think he’s worried about them kicking him out,” Danny says. When Ethan remains silent, he frowns. “ _Are_  you?”

 

“I don’t know,” Ethan says, shrugging uncomfortably. “Maybe.”

 

“Ethan, what? They would  _never_  do that.”

 

“Why not? What if we broke up? They only bought me in the first place to make you happy. If I stop doing that, what’s the point of keeping me around? And if I actively make you  _unhappy_? You know they care about you more than me.”

 

“That’s only because they’ve known me way longer,” Danny says, worry pooling in his scent. “They care about you a lot, Eth.”

 

“Okay, sure, but they care about you  _more_. I remember back when I was living with Kali and Ennis, they  _both_  got sold when they got in a fight once because they couldn’t stand to be in the same room. And that was in a house with a ton of other slaves, so it barely even affected anyone. You think if things got really bad between us, they would let you suffer for the  _rest of your life_?”

 

“It’s only been a week,” Stiles points out. “Don’t you think you’re looking a little too far into the future here?”

 

Ethan opens his mouth to contradict him and then snaps it shut.

 

“He has to,” Derek supplies. “Remember when you asked me what it’s like for werewolves to date? I’m sure Ethan is used to the same stuff. It’s not like a normal relationship. Weird as it may seem, you have to look ahead at your whole life. If you date for five years and then break up, you’re either going to have to live in the same house for the rest of your life, or be sold. Neither of those is a great option.”

 

“I just hate that we have to think about breaking up so soon,” Danny sighs. “We’ve barely dated.”

 

“So wait a while,” Derek advises. “Not  _years_ , but you don’t have to say anything till it starts to get serious. And even then, only when you’re both comfortable. I know Jackson is your best friend, but you’re not obligated to tell him. I mean, how long did it take him to tell you about Lydia?”

 

Danny smiles, looking nostalgic.

 

“The day he met her, actually. Said she was the most beautiful girl in school and he was going to find a way to date her. Their relationship was a little less healthy back then.” He shrugs. “He also, and excuse my paraphrasing here, said something about a little dork with a buzzcut who was staring at her all throughout lunch, and how he was going to kill him.”

 

Stiles laughs, shaking his head.

 

“Oh, what good friends we were back then. And aw, the buzzcut days. What a time.”

 

Danny smirks, and wraps an arm around Ethan’s waist, pulling him closer.

 

“Alright. I think you guys are right. We’ll wait till it seems like a good time to say something.”

 

Some of the tension leaves Ethan’s shoulders, and he relaxes into Danny’s side.

 

“Great,” Stiles says. He looks more relaxed too, now that he’s no longer being asked for advice on something he knows next to nothing about. “Who wants dessert?”

  

* * *

 

“Were you lying earlier?” Derek asks suddenly.

 

They’re sitting on the couch together watching TV, and have been for hours. Stiles has no idea what he’s talking about.

 

“About what?”

 

“What you said at lunch.”

 

“I said a lot of things at lunch,” Stiles says, angling himself to face Derek better. “That I used to have a buzzcut? That I think Lydia and Jackson would be chill with Danny and Ethan dating? That I think fettuccine alfredo tastes like trash?”

 

Derek doesn’t even crack a smile.

 

“You said you would be okay with me dating someone.”

 

“Oh. Uh. Why? Do you have someone in mind?”

 

“Your heart skipped when you said it,” Derek says, dodging the last question. “It does that when you lie.”

 

Stiles’ stomach sinks.

 

“You were listening?”

 

“Not purposely,” Derek says. His face is very hard to read. “But I heard it.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Well, shit.

 

“Did you mean it?”

 

“I don’t know. I mean, yeah. Sure. Why not?”

 

Stiles has no idea why not. Very purposely, in fact. Ever since he felt the very first spark of a different kind of affection for Derek, he has absolutely  _not_  allowed himself to think about it. When he initially noticed it, those first couple of times Derek was working out right in the middle of the living room, he thought it would just pass. Thought they were just good friends and he was being gross and creepy and  _far_  too much like Derek’s old owners for his liking. And then there was the time they ate cupcakes after his dad came over, when Derek swiped chocolate frosting from Stiles’ mouth. And there was the discussion about werewolves dating that made Stiles feel weirdly disappointed. And a  _lot_  of tiny things like that, lately, but Stiles tries to ignore them. He has all kinds of good feelings in regard to Derek, and he purposely hasn’t tried to strip away the levels of sympathy and friendship and brotherhood and all the other things that make him feel such warmth towards him. Like he wants to protect him and tell him everything will be okay and just hug it out. Which he won’t. Because personal space is Derek’s  _thing_  a lot of the time, and Stiles isn’t trying to violate that. There’s something else under all those other feelings, though, and he doesn’t know if it’s a feeling of really strong friendship, a still-developing version of what he feels for Scott, or something more. Something deeper and something more dangerous and something that he is not about to touch with a ten-foot pole, for his  _and_  Derek’s sakes.

 

“I don’t know why not,” Derek says slowly. “I thought maybe you could tell me.”

 

“There is no reason why not." He's painfully aware of how awkward this conversation sounds. "You can do whatever you want, Derek.”

 

“Right, but does it bother you?”

 

“Does it matter?”

 

“Yes,” Derek says, furrowing his brow. “It matters to me.”

 

Stiles sighs.

 

“I don’t know, dude. I care about you a lot and I don’t want you to get hurt again, okay?”

 

It may not be the whole truth, but it’s certainly  _a_  truth, and Stiles knows it’s something his heart won’t fuck up.

 

After a moment, Derek nods.

 

“Okay. I was just wondering.”

 

“Yeah man, of course,” Stiles says. “So, uh…  _do_  you have someone in mind?”

 

“Not really,” Derek says. “Danny and Ethan just got me thinking. I don’t think I even  _could_  date anyone. Where would I ever find a person who wants to date a werewolf? Especially one with an owner.”

 

Stiles shrugs.

 

“I mean… if you ever did find someone you wanted to spend the rest of your life with, I could let them have your papers. I wouldn’t force you to stay here if you found someone you really loved.” Derek’s eyes widen in alarm, and Stiles is quick to add, “Only with your permission, obviously. Like, if you wanted to get ‘married’ or something. It wouldn’t make any sense for me to own you anymore. I mean… I could keep ownership of you just in case, if you wanted. I don’t know. This seems like a bridge we can cross if we come to it. I’m not trying to freak you out or marry you off or something. You know you’re always welcome here.”

 

Derek nods, relaxing a little.

 

“I know,” he says. "Sorry, I just- I don’t think I could ever date someone who owns me. It’s too much power. After… After Kate. I wouldn’t want-”

 

Stiles’ stomach twists with guilt, and, selfishly, with the tiniest twinge of disappointment.

 

“Hey, no,” he says. “Listen. You never have to do  _anything_  you don’t want to. If you ever find a girl you really love or trust, then that’s fine. You can live with her and give her your papers, or live with her and have me hold onto your papers, or we could get you a safe that only you know the combination to and we can stick them in there, or- whatever, man. I just want you to be happy. I don’t even know what we’re worrying about if you don’t have a girl in mind.”

 

“Or guy.”

 

Stiles blinks. Obviously, it’s something he’s considered, but Derek had never mentioned leaning one way or the other before.

 

“Or guy,” he agrees. “Right. But... Yeah. This is something we so  _totally_  don’t need to worry about right now unless you actually want to discuss it. I just want you to know I’m absolutely fine with whatever you want to do, okay? I’ll be happy no matter who you end up with, Derek.”

 

Stiles doesn’t need to be able to hear heartbeats to finally acknowledge that that last part might not be quite true.

 

 _Fuck._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember waaaay back in the beginning of this fic when we got Danny's pov, too? Figured we'd go back to that for once since it's kind of his chapter. Also... feelings are hard. Poor Stiles :/
> 
> As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts! *Edit: let me know if you'd like to see more of Ethan or Danny's point of view!


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gasp! Updates _two_ Saturdays in a row? Who am I and what did I do with kitsunequeen...?

“Hey,” Derek says, crouching down to reach the bottom shelf of Stiles’ bookcase. “What’re these? Photo albums?”

 

“Oh, yeah,” Stiles says, peering over the back of the couch. “I haven’t looked at those in forever.”

 

The thick film of dust on their plastic covers backs him up.

 

“Can I?”

 

Stiles raises an eyebrow.

 

“Seriously? I wouldn’t think you’d have an interest in that.”

 

“Why not? It’ll be fun. I can see that buzzcut Danny mentioned the other day.”

 

Stiles groans.

 

“Dude, high-school-me weighed a buck-fifty soaking wet. Pale skin. Fragile bones. _Buzzcut_. Those weren’t my best days, okay?”

 

“And today is?”

 

“Hey!”

 

“Stiles, you have _Cheeto dust_ in your hair,” Derek says, smirking. “You’ve been sitting there writing for hours, and if you keep running your hand through it like that, you’ll turn into a ginger.”

 

“Could’ve told me sooner,” Stiles grumbles, pulling out his phone to assess the damage. “That’s barely anything! A square inch of orangey goodness isn’t hurting _anyone_ , Derek _._ ”

 

“It’s hurting my will to ever eat Cheetos again,” Derek says matter-of-factly, taking one of the photo albums back to the couch and ruffling a hand through Stiles’ hair to fix it. He snags the bag of chips and sets it on the coffee table. “And you’ll be hurting these pictures, too. My mom-” He falters for a moment, surprised at himself for causally bringing up his mother in conversation. “My mom was crazy about pictures. You could only hold them by the corners, and we couldn’t even _look_ at her albums in direct sunlight.”

 

He can’t help but imagine how devastated she would be that every last picture turned to ash.

 

“Yeah, well my mom was a grown-up wildchild. Orange stains on photographs are perfectly acceptable if when you look at them in ten years, it reminds you of the afternoon you spent looking at them with your friend.”

 

“We’re not friends,” Derek says, looking over the first page of the album. “I could never be friends with someone who wears this much plaid.”

 

“You’re _mean_ today,” Stiles says, but he can’t seem to help grinning as he scooches closer to Derek on the couch and shoves at his arm. “But yeah, I get it. Bet you were more of a leather guy, right?”

 

“I was,” Derek admits. “Now I just kind of wear whatever I can get my hands on, but… I do miss that.”

 

He has to suppress a shudder at the thought of all the _other_ leather things he’s been forced to wear since then.

 

“Well hey, I got you that jacket, didn’t I? What ever happened to that?”

 

“The weather has been too warm for it,” Derek says, even though his teenage self was a masochist who absolutely wore leather jackets straight through the hot California summers. “It’s finally starting to get chilly though, maybe I’ll wear it soon.”

 

If he does, he’ll have to find some other place to keep that $820.

 

“Maybe I’ll get myself another stylish jacket like that for fall,” Stiles says, pointing to a truly atrocious neon vest that a smiling, front-toothless younger version of him is wearing. “I hear snot green in in this year.”

 

“Pretty sure it’s snot,” Derek deadpans, making Stiles laugh delightedly.

 

For some reason, Derek really likes that sound.

 

“Look at this one!” Stiles crows when they turn the page. “Oh, my God.”

 

There’s a picture of a very young Scott planting a kiss on the cheek of a red, giggling Stiles. They’re both wearing party hats, blue with orange polka dots, and it’s pretty adorable. Stiles takes out his phone and Derek watches as he Snapchats a picture of it to Scott and Lydia with the caption _loml :*_.

 

“L-O-M-L?” Derek reads. “What’s that?”

 

Stiles scoffs, then realizes he’s serious.

 

“Right, I guess you’re not too up to date on pop culture. It’s short for ‘love of my life’.”

 

“I don’t like new slang. It changes ridiculously fast.”

 

“Okay, Grandpa,” Stiles laughs. “Sorry we still don’t say things are _groovy._ ”

 

Derek rolls his eyes.

 

“I’m only five years older than you, Stiles.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles says, continuing to flip the pages. “Look at this!”

 

They go on like that for a while, flipping through pictures and messing around, and it’s nice. It’s normal. If not for Cora, Derek thinks, maybe he could stay. Maybe.

 

* * *

 

“Do you remember when I first came here?”

 

Stiles raises an eyebrow.

 

“ _Very_ clearly, dude. Don’t think I’ll ever forget, no matter how hard I try.”

 

It was probably one of Derek’s _less_ awful first few days with an owner, but he doesn’t say that.

 

“Do you remember when I dropped that picture frame?”

 

He points at the picture of a young Stiles sitting on a tire swing, his mother and father beside him, set on the high shelf Derek had left it on after dusting that day.

 

It takes Stiles a moment, but then he says, “Yeah, I remember. And I caught it. Cause, y’know, I have amazing, catlike reflexes.”

 

“Of course,” Derek says flatly.

 

“I do! And what about it?”

 

“I don’t know,” he says, suddenly feeling stupid. “It was the first time you really seemed human to me. Not in the _all humans are awful_ way, obviously. But. Emotionally.”

 

“Seriously?” Stiles asks, looking surprised.

 

“Yeah.” Derek shrugs. “I thought you were going to yell at me for being clumsy, but uh. You told me about your family. That your mom passed. And you missed how healthy your dad was. You just seemed really wistful looking at it. Most humans don’t let us see their vulnerable side, if they even have one. So. It was kind of nice.”

 

“Oh,” Stiles says, looking pleased. “I mean, I know you still didn’t like me after that, but… I’m glad _something_ made me seem more relatable.”

 

Derek is glad too.

 

* * *

 

Ten or so pages later, Scott Snaps Stiles back. It’s a video of him blowing a dramatic kiss, captioned _love from the day one bae!! (why the photo albums?)_

“C’mere,” Stiles instructs, moving in so he’s pressed right against Derek’s side. Derek finds he doesn’t mind the close quarters. “Smile!”

 

He clicks the button that’s apparently for his front-facing camera, and Derek blinks in surprise.

 

“ _Smile_ ,” Stiles repeats. “We don’t have a single picture together.”

 

“I hate pictures.”

 

“Dude, why? You’re so- Um.” Derek raises an eyebrow. “I mean, it’s been so long since you’ve taken one, hasn’t it?”

 

“Yeah,” Derek says slowly. “I don’t know. You’ll laugh.”

 

“I would _love_ to be less of an asshole so I could assure you that I won’t, but alas. Tell me anyway.”

 

“You’re ridiculous,” Derek huffs. “I don’t know, I just don’t like being pressured to smile. It makes me feel weird. And my sisters would always tease me about it. My mother had like fifty pictures of me as a toddler where I would just drop my fangs instead whenever someone tried to get me to smile for the camera.”

 

“Well the fact that that’s the fucking cutest thing I’ve ever heard aside,” Stiles says, grinning. “You don’t have to smile. Check out all these filters.”

 

Stiles taps the screen and suddenly the features of cartoon dogs are plastered over their faces. Incredulous, Derek begins to say something, only for an animated pink tongue to stick out of his mouth. He scoffs to hide the small spark of amusement, and Stiles cracks up.

 

Somehow Stiles managed to get a picture in Derek’s moment of surprise, and he saves it.

 

“Seriously?” Derek asks, rolling his eyes. “That’s our first picture together?”

 

“It’s fun!” Stiles defends. “I’m going to have it framed.”

 

“Yeah, you go ahead and do that,” Derek mutters.

 

Stiles laughs again.

 

“Here, let me take another. It’s rude not to answer. You can choose the filter this time.”

 

Stiles swipes through the options, turning them from pandas, to kittens, to skeletons. When they reach a set of flower crowns that cast their faces in a pink glow, Stiles says, “Oh dude, _c’mon._ This one!”

 

“I thought I got to choose,” Derek says. “It’s not very manly.”

 

“Who has time for toxic masculinity when there are _flower crowns_?” Stiles asks. “Besides, it makes my skin look awesome.”

 

Derek gives a put-upon sigh, but after a moment, he says, _“Fine._ ”

 

“Yay! I bet Scotty’ll send one back. Smile!”

 

“I don’t _want_ to smile,” Derek reminds.

 

Stiles snorts, and Derek elbows him before he can make a comment about how that’s so _Derek_.

 

“Fine, fine,” Stiles says. “But you have to do _something_. You can’t just glare at him, flower crowns aren’t about glaring.”

 

Derek deliberates for a second, but figures it’ll make Stiles happy.

 

Just like when he was a child, he drops his fangs, and he’s pleased when Stiles not only doesn’t flinch, but grins.

 

“Oh man, that’s _awesome_ ,” he says, and bares his teeth to the camera too.

 

Derek has to admit it’s kind of a great picture.

 

* * *

             

A little later Scott demands to be sent another picture of himself and Stiles, and Stiles has to flip back at least ten pages to find one.

 

“Scott kind of stopped letting anyone take pictures of him in high school,” Stiles explains while searching for a good one. “He got weirdly sensitive about his jawline. It’s like… the _tiniest_ bit crooked, but try telling that to teenage him. He’s a lot better about it now, he almost always lets us take pictures, but I wish we had better ones of him from back then. You know he didn’t even let us take a picture together when we graduated high school? _And_ he didn’t have one in the yearbook! I bet he regrets that now.”

Derek certainly isn’t about to point it out, but he remembers that halfway through high school is around the time Scott was bitten. Now, almost every camera has an anti-flash lens for werewolves, but ten years ago, it wasn’t as common. His eyes would’ve distorted his entire face, which was definitely the last thing he needed.

 

When Stiles finds one to send, Scott quickly snaps back, _any chance I can come over tonight? You’re making me all nostalgic._

 

“Would you mind?” Stiles asks.

 

“Not as long as we still make soup like you promised,” Derek says. “Scott’s fine.”

 

Stiles beams.

 

“Great. I’ll let him know.”

 

* * *

 

Luckily, Scott doesn’t seem terrified when Derek opens the door this time.

 

“Hey, man,” he says, socking Derek very lightly on the arm as he enters the house. “How’ve you been?”

 

“Pretty good,” Derek says. And, aside from a few obvious bumps, he really has been. “You?”

 

“Not that great,” Scott admits. “That’s kind of why I wanted to get out of the house tonight.”

 

“Well get your ass in here and tell us what’s wrong,” Stiles calls from the kitchen. “Everyone’s helping with dinner.”

 

That makes Scott perk up a little, and Derek follows him into the kitchen, where Stiles, whose hands are dripping wet, hugs him carefully.

 

“Chop some onions and tell us what’s the matter,” he instructs. “This way, if you cry, we can totally pretend it’s no big deal.”

 

“He’s only being an asshole because he already knows,” Scott tells Derek, grabbing a knife from the cutlery drawer and sitting down at the table. “I’m having girl problems.”

 

“And I’m _sobbing_ for him,” Stiles says. “He’s afraid she’s not looking for something serious even though she obviously sounds like she’s _really_ into him.”

 

“ _Not_ obviously. Not obviously at all, because she’s in Lydia’s league of rich, pretty, and talented, and I live in a tiny apartment, still paying off vet school loans.”

 

“How’d you meet her?” Derek asks.

 

“Lydia and I were going out for drinks, and last-minute she told me her friend was coming. We kind of hit it off. Like I said, she’s pretty amazing, and I guess she drank enough to think I was kind of cool too? But now it’s a few dates later and I feel like I’m just waiting for her to lose interest. Like… there was something _off_ about her on our last date, but I couldn’t tell what.”

 

“Maybe she’s secretly a spy, dude. She’s out to getcha.” To Derek, Stiles adds, “She won’t tell him her last name. Supposedly, she’s considering having it legally changed. Lydia doesn’t know it either. She’s just her friend from yoga.”

 

“At least if she was a spy, I’d know what’s so weird.”

 

“Well what’d you say that made her _get_ all weird?” Stiles asks. “You never got around to telling me.”

 

“I’m not positive.” Scott grabs some celery from the pile of veggies on the kitchen table and starts dicing that, too. “I think it was when I started talking about work.”

 

“Maybe she’s just having work trouble and didn’t want to think about it,” Derek suggests.

 

“I hope so,” Scott says, frowning. “We’re supposed to go out again in a few days, and I really hope she doesn’t break it off. She’s so awesome.”

 

“Awesome, and smart, and nice, and cool, and _pretty_ ,” Stiles mocks in a dreamy voice.

 

“Well she is! And hey, Lydia finally sent me a picture of her. I couldn’t ask for one myself without sounding like a creep.”

 

Scott wipes his hands on a stray dish towel and pulls out his phone, which he hands off to Stiles.

 

“Damn,” Stiles says. “You’re right, Scott. No wonder she and Lydia are friends. Look, Derek.”

 

He turns the phone toward Derek, who has to blink a few times when he sees the photo. He reaches for it and Stiles hands it over, the two of them looking at Derek curiously. Derek is much more concerned about looking at the phone, which displays a selfie of Lydia and another woman, both smiling brightly.

 

She _is_ pretty. And talented. And smart. _Maybe_ even nice.  

 

Unfortunately, she’s also Allison Argent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, two important things!!!  
> 1) No spoilers, but don’t totally freak out _just_ yet!  
>  2) Thank you guys so much for getting this over 1500 kudos! Looking at photo albums together was a request from a reader, and as a big thank you for 1500, if you guys have something specific you’d like to see (certain characters interacting, little pre-sterek moments, scenes like this one, etc), let me know here or on tumblr and I’ll see about incorporating them. Obviously I can’t do huge, plot-changing things, but little moments you guys want to see would be totally fine :)
> 
> As always, your thoughts are very much appreciated, and thanks again <3


	35. Chapter 35

“What?” Scott asks, brow creased. “What’s that face?”

 

“Yeah, she’s cute,” Stiles teases. “You’re not into her?”

 

“Do you know who this is?” Derek asks, looking intently at Scott.

 

“Um… She’s Allison? I don’t know. Why, who is she?”

 

“She’s Allison _Argent_ ,” Derek corrects.

 

“Who?” Stiles asks, taking the phone back so he can squint at the picture. “Like, as in _the_ Argents?”

 

Honestly, Derek thinks the universe should cut him a break once in a while.

 

“ _The_ Argents,” he agrees, going back to cutting carrots. “No wonder she didn’t want to tell you her last name.”

 

He glances back up at Scott, who’s gone deathly silent.

 

“Are you okay?” Stiles asks delicately, setting a hand on Derek’s shoulder. “Do you need-?”

 

“I’m fine,” Derek says. And for once, he’s not lying. “She wasn’t bad.”

 

Stiles looks surprised.

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah,” Derek says, looking pointedly at Scott again. “She got in a lot of fights with her parents when she was young and I’m pretty sure she moved out. She didn’t like how they treated werewolves.”

 

Stiles frowns.

 

“Did you know her?”

 

“Vaguely,” Derek says shortly. “We lived in the same house. She was Kate’s niece. It was a big mansion, and Kate, Gerard, and Chris’ family all had their own parts. Allison never talked to me.”

 

Well, she did once. And Derek remembers it well.

 

* * *

 

 

 _“Kate, this is_ crazy _.”_

_“Crazy? It’s training, sweetheart. You’re gonna take over the family business one day, right?”_

_“I want to be an archer,” Allison says._

_Derek’s heard the argument a hundred times before, usually around the dinner table._

_Kate laughs._

_“Hon, when you run an empire, you can do whatever you want. I know your mom likes to fight about it, but there’s no reason you can’t do both. You think Grandpa sits around doing the grunt work all day? I do it because I love it, and Gerard used to too, but now he spends half his time playing golf. When you’re running all this, you can do whatever the hell you want.” Allison just crosses her arms and looks away, and Kate pulls her in for a sideways hug, arm around her shoulders. To Derek, she says, “Aren’t you going to say hello to my niece?”_

_Derek’s in one of the many sound-proof rooms in the basement. He’s shirtless and strung from a metal fence against the far wall, which isn’t an uncommon occurrence. This time he didn’t even do anything wrong. Kate just told him this morning that she had a surprise for him, and he guesses this must be it._

_Derek snarls, and Kate releases Allison, stalking over to the table a few feet away from him and cranking up the power of the electric fence._

_Allison’s face is carefully blank._

_“See, Ally?” Kate asks, turning back to her. “No need to feel bad. He’s a monster, and kind of an_ asshole _. Right, Derek?” He bares his teeth. Whatever is going to happen is going to happen, but he’d prefer Allison be scared of him than think he’s just Kate’s bitch. “I’ll give you an hour down here, alright? You do a good job, and I’ll tell your dad how much your attitude is improving. He and Vic have been going back and forth on getting you that car, you know. Figured I’d give you a chance to push them over the edge.”_

_She winks, and walks back over to Allison, slipping the controls for Derek’s shock collar into her hand._

_“For emergencies,” she says. “Obviously, there are much more_ fun _things to play with down here. You’ve got this, okay? First one is always the hardest.”_

_She smiles predatorily and leaves the room, shutting the door behind her._

_When they’re alone, Allison waits a few long moments before glancing up at Derek._

_She looks innocent, young, and Derek hates her. Hates that she’s an Argent, hates how much she looks like Kate, hates that she’s a little Victoria in the making. Hates that she’s probably considered popular,_ normal _at school, and no one is bothered that this is what her family does to people. Hates that she’s just a little over the age Derek was when Kate stole his life away. Hates that she exists at all._

_He’s never quite known how to feel about Allison. She’s never done anything to him, and he’s never heard anything bad about her from the other slaves, but she_ is _an Argent. And she is here to hurt him. And suddenly, he hates her more than anything. Wants her away, gone,_ dead _, even, just like the rest of her family._

_“Hang on,” she says finally, interrupting his thoughts._

_If that’s supposed to be a joke about his current situation, it’s not very funny._

_She walks over to the table in the back of the room, the one with the impressive array of torture instruments, and mulls it over. She puts the remote for Derek’s collar in her pocket and picks up a few sharp little knives, and turns back around. She raises her eyebrows pointedly at Derek, then carefully brings one knife to the tip of her finger and pricks it. Immediately, fat beads of blood start to ooze. She lets a few drops fall onto the knife and then does the same to the others, and smears the blood across the shiny, clean blades. Derek is pretty sure he’s about to be part of some sort of satanic ritual. Then she pulls a band-aid out of her purse and wraps it around the finger, applying pressure while Derek continues to stare at her, morbidly fascinated._

_After a while she seems to decide the bleeding has stopped, and picks up all the knives again. There’s a container of wolfsbane solution, a thick, glistening purple paste, sitting on the table, and she dips all the knives into that, too. Derek watches in utter confusion as she drags the knives against each other, spreading the weird mixture of bloodstained poison._

_Finally, she walks as close as she seems to dare towards Derek and drops three of the knives by his feet. The last, she sets down on the other table, the one with the box controlling the electric current machine, while she fiddles with the controls. Derek thinks she must have messed up somehow when she turns it down and then off, but all she says is, “Sorry, should have done that first.”_

_Derek sags against his bonds when she doesn’t turn it back on, thanking the universe for his few moments of relief._

_“Done_ what _?”_

_His voice is rough from thirst and disuse. From anger._

_“Um… Stopped electrocuting you?” Allison says, like it’s obvious._

_Derek narrows his eyes at her._

_“Why?”_

_“I think the better question is ‘why was Kate electrocuting you?’, but I mean…”_

_“Because she’s a bitch.”_

_He knows he’ll be punished for that, but he’d rather she get it over with than… keep doing whatever the hell this is._

_“Drink this,” Allison says in lieu of answer, pulling a water bottle from her bag. She uncaps it and walks slowly towards him, holding it up to his lips. “It’s still cold.”_

_He continues to glare at her, defiantly tilting his chin away._

_“What’s wrong with it?”_

_“You know, I’m not Kate,” she says, and takes a swig of the water. “See? Clean.”_

_She holds the bottle up to him again._

_“You’re not afraid I’m going to bite you?”_

_He says it like a challenge. Like he might._

_“I’m afraid you’re going to lose your voice if you don’t drink something soon.”_

_Thirst wins out over distrust—he’s in a vulnerable enough position that Allison has no reason to lie to him, anyway—and he tilts his head back a little as she moves the bottle close enough that he can actually drink from it._

_As he takes big, greedy gulps, she says, “And to answer your question, no, I’m not particularly afraid of you. If you were going to do something, you’d have killed us all in our sleep by now.”_

_Derek ignores her in favor of finishing off the water. He wishes she were at least a little bit afraid._

_When he’s done, Allison puts the bottle back in her bag._

_“You’re healing really slowly,” she says, in a tone someone more naïve might mistake for concern._

_Derek’s not bleeding anywhere, but he’s covered in welts and bruises._

_“If I let myself heal, she’ll know you turned the electricity off.”_

_“I’ll have to tell her anyway. Those ‘stab wounds’ have to have closed somehow.” She waves a hand at the knives scattered on the floor. “Also, I’m going to have to pour a little water on you later to explain why there’s only blood on the knives, not your body. I’ll say I got worried because I didn’t know how much wolfsbane you could take. Let me know if you need anything else. Within reason, obviously.”_

_She retreats to a corner and pulls a book out of her purse. She pretends to read it, but Derek can see how often she steals glances at him._

_After a long while, when he’s all healed, he asks, “Why are you doing this?”_

_Allison shrugs._

_“I think you deserve some peace for once,” she says, and it’s not a lie. “And besides. I really, really want a car.”_

* * *

 

“Did she ever do anything to anyone else?” Stiles prompts.

 

“Not as far as I saw,” Derek says. “It was a big house, and her family lived on the opposite side, so I couldn’t say for sure. I don’t think she really had any interest in hunting or trading.”

 

Scott’s grip on the knife is shaking ever so slightly.

 

“Alright,” Stiles says. “Well. We don’t have to talk about this now, right Scott? Why ruin a peaceful night?”

 

Scott shakes his head, staring determinedly down at his cutting board.

 

“I’m, uh… I’m sorry I brought it up,” he says. 

 

Derek bets he is.

 

* * *

 

“Scott, why don’t you and Derek go look for a movie or something?” Stiles suggests when they’ve finished eating. “I’ll clean up in here.”

 

Scott looks like he’s about to offer help, so Derek quickly speaks over him.

 

“Yeah, sure. Let us know if you need anything. Come on, Scott.”

 

Looking uncomfortable, Scott follows Derek to the living room, where they sit down on opposite sides of the couch.

 

After a moment, Scott, voice low, says, “Holy _shit.”_

 

“I know,” Derek mutters.

 

“I’m gonna kill myself, dude,” Scott says, scrubbing his hands roughly over his face. “Do you think she knows? God, fuck, she was acting so _weird_ last time.” 

 

“I don’t know, but you need to be _very_ careful with this.”

 

“I don’t even know what to _do_. I can’t just break up with her, we’re not even officially a thing. And I can’t stop answering all her calls and texts, either  What if she gets mad? What if she knows and she gets mad and she _tells someone_ and-”

 

“Scott, stop it.”

 

“ _How_? How can I not spend every waking moment for like… the rest of my _life_ worrying that she knows?”

 

“Did you do anything to tip her off?”

 

“I don’t know, man. I spent all of dinner trying to figure it out and I have no clue. I have good control, and I’m really used to hiding it, but she probably knows exactly what signs to look for.”

 

“Okay,” Derek says. “So it’s probably fine. Just because she knows what to look for doesn’t mean she was _looking_. They’re well-trained, but they’re not like us; they can’t know for certain what we are unless we give them some kind of proof. And I didn’t want to get Stiles worried by talking about the Argents, but I did interact with her once. Kate left her alone with me so she could… learn the family business, and she didn’t hurt me. She actually went out of her way to make sure I was okay. I’m not saying she’s necessarily a good person, but she was okay back then, and she might still be okay now.”

 

“That’s… good, I guess. But I can’t _date_ her.”

 

“I’m the last person telling you to date an Argent,” Derek says. He remembers Scott asking last time how Derek got caught after a successful 15 years in hiding, and telling him not to let your hunter girlfriend know you’re a werewolf. Someone in the universe seemed to think he was implying that Scott _get_ a hunter girlfriend to not tell that to. Excellent. “They’re monsters, Scott. You need to remember that. Remember that people like them are the _reason_ you’re so afraid of being found out.”

 

“I know,” Scott says, nodding resolutely. “I know. I don’t know how yet, but I’m going to break it off with her.”

 

* * *

 

But, of course, he doesn’t.

 

* * *

 

Later that week, Derek overhears, “Can you _believe_ Scott is still dating that- that- Ugh!” from Stiles’ bedroom.

 

He knows it’s wrong, but he listens in anyway. It sounds like Stiles is on the phone with Lydia.

 

“She’s _my_ friend, too, you know.”

 

“Oh, let me rephrase. Can you _believe_ that Lydia is still friends with that- _that_ -?”

 

“You’re being ridiculous.”

 

“ _I’m_ being ridiculous? My two best friends are chumming it up with the niece of the woman who _tortured Derek_ , and that’s supposed to just be A-Okay?”

 

Derek takes a deep breath, but he’s fine. He keeps listening as he makes his bed. Thinking about Allison really doesn’t upset him, but Kate does.

 

“The niece, Stiles. The _niece_. Should we not be friends with Scott just because his dad is a dick?”

 

“That’s different!”

 

“How?”

 

“Because- Because it _is_ , Lydia. Rafael is a _dick_ , but he’s not nearly in league with the _Argents_.”

 

“She’s probably not even going to be an Argent anymore. She moved out and she wants to have her name changed. Doesn’t that show she’s trying to get away from that life?”

 

“Or maybe it shows she’s trying to go undercover or something like Kate did!”

 

Derek’s hands fist in his comforter for a few seconds.

 

“Stiles, I _know_ her. She seems perfectly nice. Like, nicer than most people, actually.”

 

“And that doesn’t seem suspicious to you?”

 

“Yes, Stiles,” Lydia says flatly. “Let’s also write off the Care Bears while we’re at it.”

 

“This isn’t funny.”

 

“What’s not funny is that you’re suddenly acting like your best friend is the devil for being _happy_. How bad has his dating life been up till this point? Just… let him be happy.”

 

“Him being happy is hurting Derek.”

 

“Is it?”

 

“I don’t know! It’s hurting _me_. You don’t know what she did to him, Lydia.”

 

“I get it,” Lydia says, her voice more sympathetic now. “But Stiles, Allison and her aunt are two distinct people. Just because you come from a terrible family doesn’t mean you’re terrible.”

 

“It means you’re predisposed to be.”

 

“And that makes if all the more impressive if you overcome it.”

 

“ _If_.”

 

Lydia sighs, and Derek stops listening. What would _really_ make him happy would be if Scott would stop being an idiot for his _own_ sake, and if everyone stopped talking about Kate. He hasn’t gotten another chance to talk to Scott yet, but for all Derek knows, he could just be dating her because he’s still too afraid to break things off. And if Scott genuinely wants to be with her regardless of her family situation? Well, Derek will try to talk him out of it, but ultimately that’s Scott’s risk to take.

 

Then he has an idea for when Stiles gets off the phone, though, that might actually clear some of this up.

 

For Scott’s sake, he hopes it will.

 

* * *

 

“Paulson residence, Slave 19347 speaking. Master and Mistress Paulson are not present at the moment, but I can take a message. Who may I say is calling?” 

 

Derek clears his throat and lowers his voice.

 

“Actually, I’m calling to speak to a…” he flips the pages of the book on his nightstand, hoping to imitate the sound of rustling papers, “Slave 02641. About the tax returns?”

 

“Yes, sir, one moment.”

 

A minute or two later someone else picks up the phone.

 

“Good afternoon, Slave 02641 speaking. You wanted to speak about Master Paulson’s taxes?”

 

“Are you alone?”

 

Isaac hesitates a moment, confused.

 

“Yes, sir. It’s just me here.”

 

“Great,” Derek says, voice returning to normal. “What’s up?”

 

“Oh my God, you’re such an _asshole_. I thought I was going to have to spend two hours talking about rich people garbage. It’s not even tax season!”

 

“I’m sorry, how would you _like_ me to get you on the phone next time?”

 

“Ugh, I don’t _know_. Say you need to talk to me about the mortgage; that’s not even my job. Then at least I’ll know it’s you. Anyway, what’s up? It’s the middle of the day.”

 

“Am I interrupting something?”

 

“No, I’m hard at work handling my Master’s finances, obviously.”

 

Derek laughs.

 

“Alright, good. I need to ask you something.”

 

“Shoot.”

 

“What do you know about Allison Argent?”

 

The extensive tabs Isaac keeps on all the slave owners in Northern California could definitely come in handy here.

 

“ _The_ Allison Argent? Are you sure you want to talk about her?”

 

“It’s fine, Isaac, unless it’s something really bad. It’s important.”

 

“Um, okay. Tell me to shut up if you need to. But yeah, supposedly she’s actually really chill? Not like… you know.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah, man. I know they’re related, but Allison is supposed to be the best one in the family. You know she’s never even owned a slave of her own? To my knowledge, anyway.”

 

“Never?”

 

“Well no one who lives here has mentioned anything about her, so I guess she could have one right now,” _Scott_ , Derek thinks darkly, “but at the last auction I heard there was still a big rift in the family. I didn’t bother mentioning it to you because, y’know.”

 

Derek definitely wouldn’t have wanted to hear about the Argents before, but it’s interesting news now.

 

“If she’s never owned a slave, how do you know so much about her?”

 

“What, you think the tabloids don’t keep track of this shit? And other slave-owning families gossip. I have all kinds of sources, Der; the wolves pick up on these things. I mean sure, I guess she could have a secret one somewhere, but as far as _I_ know, she’s fine. She’s out there trying to be a regular person or whatever, escape her past, all that melodramatic bullshit. I heard she’s considering changing her name and everything, but that was a few months ago, too. She’s only a few years out of college but she’s already moved out, and that probably says something. I mean, would you have been so quick to move out of a house like hers?” Realizing the irony of _that_ , Isaac swiftly plows on. “I can’t make any promises, but she _seems_ to be trying to reform herself. Why are you suddenly interested in Allison, of all people?”

 

“Remember Stiles’ best friend I was telling you about?”

 

“The wolf?”

 

“That’s the one. And he’s dating her.”

 

Isaac scoffs.

 

“For real? Does he have a death wish?”

 

“You just said she was a good person!”

 

“Good person, good _smerson_. She’s an Argent, dude.”

 

“I know. That’s why I’m worried.”

 

“Well what possessed him to date a _hunter_?”

 

“He didn’t know what she was till a few days ago.”

 

“Oh,” Isaac says, more serious now. Obviously, that’s exactly what happened to Derek. “Does _she_ know what _he_ is? Did she… do something to him?”

 

“Not that I know of,” Derek says. “But he hasn’t broken things off yet, and I don’t know why. That’s why I wanted to know if there was any dirt on her. She could be blackmailing him or something for all I know. Or he could just be really in love with her, and I’d like to be at least semi-assured she’s not going to murder him or something.”

 

“Right. Well, uh. She probably won’t be murdering him, as far as I can tell. I don’t know if she’s really in favor of _helping_ werewolves, or if she just doesn’t want to personally _hurt_ them, but I’ll tell you what, you wouldn’t catch me dating a hunter either way. I mean, _c’mon_. What if the family makes up one day and they want to meet him? _Yikes_.”

 

“I don’t know,” Derek says, shaking his head. “I really don’t know. I’m gonna call him to talk about it today.”

 

“Now?”

 

“I can talk for a while if you can get away with it,” Derek says.

 

“Sure, man. I miss you.”

 

“I miss you, too. I wish you didn’t have to live there.”

 

Isaac laughs.

 

“You’re telling me. This Stiles guy is still treating you right, I hope?”

 

“He’s great,” Derek says. “Really, really great. I’ll actually miss him when I’m gone.”

 

“Damn,” Isaac says. “I’m jealous, man. I fucking hate it here.”

 

“I know. I’m sorry, I.”

 

“Eh, don’t be. You’ve had your share of shit. Hell, so have I. This is nothing when you put it in perspective. Maybe I’ll even end up with a good guy like Stiles someday, huh?”

 

“Listen,” Derek says slowly. “I know we haven’t really discussed this, but. I’ll adopt you, Isaac. When I get out. I’m not just going to leave you there.”

 

Isaac is silent for a long moment.

 

“I know you’re not a big enough asshole to be fucking with me.”

 

“Of course not,” Derek assures. “I know it won’t be easy, but you have to know I wouldn’t just leave you in the system. I would need a while to be safely away, make sure no one’s actively looking for me anymore. And time to gather enough money, too. But in a year or so? Hopefully less? You’re pack, Isaac. I would never leave you there.”

 

“Shit, dude, you’re gonna make me cry.”

 

He’s kidding, but there’s real emotion in his voice.

 

“Try not to let your misbehaving ass get sold,” Derek says, mock-chastising. “Honestly, what kind of bum is on the phone when he’s supposed to be working?” Isaac laughs, and more seriously, Derek adds, “It’ll be a lot harder to find you if you get sold. I would never stop looking, but it would be harder.”

 

“What about Boyd and Erica?”

 

“Them, we’ll have to track down. But of course we will.”

 

“And what? Build our own little secret pack? Sounds like a pipe dream, Derek.”

 

“Maybe. But it’s worth trying, isn’t it?”

 

Isaac laughs, and there’s disbelief there, but mostly delight.

 

“I swear to God, you’re crazy. Crazy, but I love you.”

 

“Hey, come on. If it works, it’ll be the sanest thing I’ve ever done.”

 

“Crazy _and_ corny.”

 

“ _Hey_ ,” Derek laughs. “I’ll leave your ass there.”

 

“My ass is too wonderful for you to leave behind and you know it.”

 

“Is that any way to talk to your tax collector?”

 

“Aaand, this is getting into bad porn territory,” Isaac teases. “I’ll talk to you soon, loser. And uh, thank you.”

 

“Of course, Isaac.”

 

* * *

 

Derek waits till Stiles leaves the house that night before he calls Scott. He sets up the phone on speaker so he can talk while he does the dishes, and though he knows Stiles won’t be back for a while, makes sure to keep an ear out for the sound of keys in the door.

 

Scott picks up on the fourth ring.

 

“Hey, Stiles, what’s up?”

 

“It’s Derek.”

 

“Oh. Well hey, man. Everything okay?”

 

“I could ask you the same thing.”

 

“Right,” Scott says slowly. “I guess you’ve heard I haven’t exactly broken things off.”

 

“Mhm.”

 

“ _Right_. So, about that… I really like her, Derek.”

 

“Oh, my God.”

 

“I know, okay? I _know_. I know we’ve only been out a few times, and I know Romeo and Juliet stuff never works out, but I _really_ like her. And she really likes me, too.”

 

“Or she knows what you are and she’s trying to get close to you so she can expose you.”

 

Scott takes a deep breath.

 

“I _know_ I’m being an idiot, Derek, alright? I know that you, of all people, are someone I should listen to on this. But I couldn’t break up with her right away because I had to figure out if she knew anything, and then she ended up staying the night after a date, and she actually made me forget all about how freaked out I was. That’s pretty impressive, right?”

 

Derek sighs.

 

“Please don’t let thinking with your dick get you killed, Scott. Or enslaved. Or sent to an alpha facility. Or _whatever_. It’s not worth it.”

 

“My-? Dude, no. We didn’t have sex, we just stayed up all night talking and laughing and watching TV. It was _great_. She’s so, so nice, and funny, and- amazing. She’s amazing, Derek. Spending time with her almost makes me stop worrying about her being a hunter.”

 

“And you should find that _concerning_.”

 

“I do! Trust me, I do. But I just… I don’t know how to describe it to you, Derek. She’s the best girl I’ve ever dated. Probably the best one I ever will.”

 

“That’s what I thought about Kate.”

 

That gives Scott pause.

 

“I… I know, Derek. I get it. And I remember how freaked out I was the other night. I’m not totally letting go of any suspicion. But I don’t want to let go of _her_ , either. I looked into her a lot online and stuff, and there’s a lot of information on her splitting from the family. It seems like she genuinely changed, Derek. Or maybe like she was like this all along. I mean, you said she was nice to you, right?”

 

“Scott,” Derek says, scrubbing hard at a dish. “I get it. I can’t stop you from seeing her. And maybe she _is_ nice _._ But I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if I let _exactly what happened to me_ happen to someone else, okay? Especially not someone Stiles cares about so much. You seem like a really nice guy. But maybe a little _too_ nice. A little too trusting, anyway. Can you at least see why I’m worried?”

 

“Yeah. I know, dude. I one hundred percent get where you’re coming from and I _really_ appreciate you trying to warn me. But if this goes south, that is _absolutely not_ your fault. I’m telling you that right now, okay? I wouldn’t be doing this unless I really, genuinely believed she was a good person. And I’m not going to let my guard down around her, I promise, but I don’t think I’m going to stop dating her, either. At least not yet. Please… try to understand that.”

 

“Okay,” Derek acquiesces. “But if you think she suspects anything, you get _out_. Do you understand me?”

 

“Yes,” Scott says seriously. “I promise. I’m not trying to ruin my life, I just… I really like her. That’s all. And Derek?”

 

“What?”

 

“I don’t know if this is even a consideration of yours right now, but you _never_ have to see her. Like, I don’t care if this somehow works out really well and we get _married_. You do not have to see her. Ever. Period. I know Stiles is my best friend and you guys are kind of a package deal lately, but I’m not trying to bring back bad memories for you. You can go the entire rest of your life without ever seeing her and that is _more_ than fine with me, okay?”

 

That lifts a weight from Derek’s shoulders that he hadn’t fully recognized till now.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Yeah, man. Of course.”

 

“And… listen,” Derek says. “If you’re really set on doing this, you should know that _supposedly_ , she really isn’t that bad. I have a friend who’s always getting details on slave owners all over Northern California, and he backed up what you found. She’s never owned a slave as far as anyone can tell, and she was always okay to the ones in her house. Nothing like… like Kate. I’m not saying she’s perfect, or incorruptible, or even _uncorrupted_ , but she might really be okay.”

 

“Oh, wow,” Scott breathes. “That’s… really good to hear. Like, humans have one opinion, but actual werewolves thinking she’s fine means a lot. Thank you for checking, Derek. Like… really. Thank you.”

 

“Of course,” Derek says. He still doesn’t think this is a _good_ idea, but… Well. Loathe as he may be to admit it, when Allison helped him out, he _really_ appreciated it at the time. Maybe it was basic human kindness, but coming from an Argent, that’s a lot. If she hurts Scott, he’ll never be able to let it go, but honestly, Scott would have to worry about this with _any_ human he dates. Obviously, dating a hunter is a bit more of a direct pipeline to Shitville, but that’s Scott’s decision to make. Again, Allison may even be… _nice._ “Good luck, Scott.”

 

“Thanks, man. I really will be careful. I promise.”

 

Derek knows that sometimes careful isn’t enough, especially when it comes to hunters, but there’s only so much he can do.

 

Besides. Maybe it really will be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Interesting decision, Scotty. We'll see what comes of this soon, I promise. And, yes, we will meet Allison in person ;) I'm very excited for it, so I hope you guys are too! As always, your thoughts are very much appreciated. 
> 
> I know I said I was hoping to update three Saturdays in a row, but hopefully this being a few thousand words longer than expected will make up for the extra few days ;) Also, this fic is over 100,000 words now, so YAY! Thanks for sticking with me, lovelies. This is my first work to crack that word count, so I'm pretty excited :D
> 
> *If for some reason you refuse to believe that canon Scott would be crazy enough to date a hunter who has, so far, done him no wrong, I invite you to look back at the very first episode of Teen Wolf where Scott recognizes Allison’s father as the man who chased him through the woods with a gang of men and shot him with a crossbow straight through the arm, pinning him to a tree, and then said, “Take him." And he _still_ goes on to date Allison. I love my son, but sometimes his judgment skills aren’t the best :P Besides! Allison helped Derek out, here! Gotta have _some_ faith in humanity, don't we? ;)


	36. Chapter 36

Stiles doesn’t want to meet Allison. He really, really doesn’t.

 

But he has to.

 

Scott isn’t forcing him or anything, didn’t even ask Stiles to do this, but it’s unavoidable. Scott is his best friend, so it’s bound to happen eventually, and besides. Stiles can’t help being morbidly curious about what another member of the Argent family will be like. Especially since she somehow managed to make Scott—pure, sweet, sunshine-y Scott—fall head over heels.

 

Plus, even if he won’t admit it, Stiles is sure Derek is _not_ happy that Scott is dating the niece of his rapist, his torturer, his-

 

“Please be nice to her,” Scott says, probably for the third or fourth time. He’s rushing around, setting the table, pushing in the chairs just right, doing all kinds of other ridiculous things. “Ally is really sweet, I promise.”

 

 _Ally_ , Stiles thinks disgustedly. _Ugh._

 

Scott practically jolts when the doorbell rings, and gives Stiles one last pointed, pleading look.

 

Stiles rolls his eyes dramatically and goes to sit in the living room, so Scott and Allison can make out in the doorway, or do whatever it is your best friend does with his hunter girlfriend.

 

He can faintly hear the two of them greeting each other, and then the door closes and they appear in the living room moments later. Allison smiles brightly when she sees Stiles, and he does his best to return it. She’s effortlessly pretty in a blue sweater dotted with black hearts, her long hair braided over one shoulder and a delicate silver pendant gracing her neck, but all Stiles can see in her now is Kate.

 

“Hey!” she says, walking over to shake his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Scott has told me so much.”

 

“Likewise,” Stiles says, quickly releasing her.

 

“Great!” Scott says. “Dinner is going to be ready in a few minutes, why don’t we go sit down?”

 

“Sounds good,” Allison answers, the two of them starting to head for the dining room.

 

Stiles follows along behind, and when they sit next to each other on one side of the table, he sits across from them.

 

“Allison, why don’t you tell Stiles about work?” Scott suggests.

 

“Oh, sure. Work is really great. I’m a personal trainer, but I do all kinds of outdoorsy things. I’m self-employed, so sometimes it’s normal stuff like hitting up the gym, but other times it’s really cool. I get to take the more fun clients out rowing and climbing and stuff. Are you into any of that?”

 

Stiles raises an eyebrow at her.

 

“Do I _look_ like I’m into any of that?”

 

“ _Stiles_ ,” Scott says.

       

“It’s fine,” Allison laughs. Stiles hates how cheery she is. “Honestly, I couldn’t say. You look pretty lean; you’re definitely not out of shape.”

 

“I’m flattered,” Stiles says blandly.

 

Allison looks momentarily confused by his attitude, but she quickly regains her happy disposition, asking, “What do you do for a living?”

 

The oven beeps, and Scott quickly pushes back from the table.

 

“I’ll be _right_ back,” he says, clearly not anxious to leave for too long.

 

Stiles thinks maybe he’s being kind of a dick, but it’s hard to tone it down. If Scott spent a day with Derek after being around the Argents, he would understand.

 

“I write,” he says, when they’re alone. “About werewolves.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Yup. Working on a new book right now. Almost finished, actually.”

 

“Wow,” Allison says, nodding like she’s impressed. She gives no sign of being bothered by the werewolves thing. “That’s really cool.”

 

“The writing, or the werewolves?”

 

She shrugs.

 

“Both. I’ve never met a writer, and I haven’t read too many books on werewolves.”

 

“No?” Stiles asks, as Scott comes back through the swinging door to the kitchen, precariously balancing every dish of food. “Well, I guess they’re not that common. That’s kind of the point.”

 

“What isn’t too common?” Scott asks, sitting back down. “And eat, guys.”

 

He takes the ladle and starts dishing potatoes onto his plate, and Stiles does the same with the asparagus.

 

“Books about werewolves,” he says casually, making Scott’s face fall.

 

Well. If he thinks Stiles is going to _avoid_ the topic, he’s wrong. He loves Scott, but either Allison genuinely is a cool person and won’t mind, or she’s terrible and she’ll flip out and they can be done with this.

 

“Is it nonfiction?” Allison asks. “I’ve read a decent number of articles and things, but my mind always goes to fiction when people say they’re writers.”

 

“Fiction,” Stiles agrees. “About a werewolf who wants to escape from slavery.”

 

“Interesting,” she says, pushing around the food on her plate. “That _is_ uncommon.”

 

“You think?”

 

“Sure. It’s a pretty unexplored category.”

 

“You don’t think it’ll be a bad influence?”

 

“ _Stiles_ ,” Scott tries again.

 

“On who?” Allison asks, seemingly unperturbed.

 

“Children. Werewolves. I don’t know. It can be a pretty controversial topic.”

 

“I don’t think too many werewolves get to spend their time reading, unfortunately. And I think kids should be able to form their own opinions. They’re not just supposed to be mini versions of their parents.”

 

That does line up with why she supposedly moved out, but Stiles still doesn’t like her.

 

“But a lot of them are, aren’t they?”

 

“I wouldn’t know. Why, are _you_ a mini version of yours?”

 

“I’d like to think so. My dad’s a great guy.”

 

“I’m sure. Scott tells me he’s the sheriff.”

 

“That’s right. What did you say _your_ family does, again?”

 

“Stiles!” Scott glares at him, and jabs his fork at his plate. “ _Eat_.”

 

“God, I’m just making conversation,” Stiles says, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Back to talking about my book, then, if parents are for some reason off limits. He ends up getting free in the end, you know. The werewolf.”

 

“Hey, spoilers,” Scott says weakly.

 

“Well I think that’s _great_ ,” Allison says, pointedly spearing a mushroom.

 

“Do you?”

 

“I _do_.”

 

“That’s interesting. I would think that you might-”

 

“I might what?” Allison demands, all traces of her formerly pleasant demeanor vanishing. “What, Stiles? Hate werewolves? Want to deprive them of basic human rights? Want them all dead? What?”

 

“Hey, calm down, I’m just _saying_ -”

 

“No, you’re not just saying, you’re just _assuming_ , and you’re being a dick. I understand. I wouldn’t want to be friends with me either. I _get_ it, okay? You don’t have to like me, or separate me from my family, or _whatever_. I mean, who doesn’t look up the person they’re dating online a little, right? Clearly, yeah, you guys know who I am. And I get why you’re wary, alright? Your best friend is a werewolf and I’m from a hunting family and it scares you. But I’m _dating_ him, not hunting him. Can’t you try to understand that?”

 

Stiles blinks.

 

Scott goes stock-still.

 

“My _who_ is a _what_?”

 

“Scott,” Allison says, rolling her eyes. “I know, obviously, so you don’t have to pretend. But just because he’s a werewolf, and my family is made up of hunters, doesn’t mean _I’m_ one, or that I’m out to get him. Just- I really like him, and all I’m asking for is a chance.”

 

“You think _Scott_ ,” Stiles says slowly, trying to process. “Is… a _werewolf_?”

 

“Okay,” Allison says, taking a deep breath. She smiles wryly, and stands from the table. “Clearly, you have no interest in having an adult conversation, so I’m going to go. Scott, it was nice seeing you. Stiles, you were certainly _interesting_ to meet. You don’t have to worry about me spilling your secret or something to the family I don’t even _talk_ to. If anyone needs me I think I’ll be out with Lydia, drinking myself into oblivion, trying to forget the shortest and worst date ever.”

 

She starts to walk away, and Stiles can’t help but call, “Wait!”

 

“What?” she huffs, frowning as she turns back to them.

 

“Why on Earth would you think Scott is a werewolf? He’s not-” He glances at Scott, who is visibly shaking, and trails off. “He’s… Scott?”

 

Scott is gripping his fork so hard that his knuckles are turning white, and he won’t meet either of their eyes.

 

“Scott,” Stiles says again, even more slowly. “Scotty, is she…?” He huffs a short, incredulous laugh. “Dude, you’re not a…? This is crazy, right?”

 

Allison bites her lip and takes a step back towards them.

 

“You didn’t… know?” she asks, looking a little horrified as she stares at Stiles. “You’re not screwing with me?”

 

“Um, I’m still not sure I know,” Stiles says, reaching across the table, setting his hand on top of Scott’s to still it. That finally gets him to look up. “Scott, bud, what’s, uh. What’s going on? Is she serious?”

 

“I’m sorry,” Scott says, wide-eyed. “I’m sorry.”

 

It’s very hard to say who, in this room, is the most bewildered.

 

“How did you not _know_?” Allison demands, voice rising in something akin to panic. She looks genuinely guilty, and Stiles realizes for the first time that maybe he _was_ the only asshole here. “Why were you- You went on the offensive about werewolves as soon as we met! Why the hell did you do that?”

 

“I don’t- have time- right now,” Stiles manages, squeezing Scott’s hand. “I can’t believe- Scott, dude, you need to calm down, okay?”

 

Scott nods, but his gaze is vacant and far-off, like he’s not even here.

 

“Scott, it’s okay,” Allison says gently, walking back over to him. She squeezes his shoulder, and he flinches. “ _Scott_.”

 

“Okay,” Stiles says, standing. “C’mon, Scotty. We’re gonna go sit down. It’s all good. Come on.”

 

He goes over to Scott and takes him by the bicep—the bicep that’s huge despite Scott not working out all that much anymore, he realizes—and elbow, and pulls him from his chair. Scott goes along without resistance, stumbling a little as he follows Stiles over to the couch and sits down. Stiles crouches in front of him, putting a hand on each Scott’s knees. Allison is hovering close behind Stiles, but he doesn’t pay her much mind.   

 

“ _Oookay_ ,” he says. “This is cool. This is fine. Nothing bad is going to happen, Scott. Why don’t you just tell me what’s going on.”

 

“I can go,” Allison offers. “It’s fine, really.”

  

“ _Don’t_ ,” Scott says sharply. “Please, don’t.”

 

He squeezes his eyes shut and ducks his head, and a quick glance back at Allison shows the pain in her eyes. It gets harder and harder to hate her.

 

“Okay,” she agrees. “Of course. Everything is fine, Scott. I meant it. I never wanted to hurt you, and I definitely never wanted to tell your secret. I really, really thought Stiles knew. I swear I didn’t just causally mention it to anyone else. You’re okay.”

 

“See?” Stiles says, nudging Scott under the chin to make him look back up. “It’s all good, Scotty. Allison isn’t going to hurt you. And you know _I’m_ not. Let’s just take a few deep breaths, okay?”

 

He does as he said, and Scott joins him after a few moments. The two of them just breathe for a little while, and it’s so silent aside from that that Allison might actually be holding her breath.

 

When Scott finally starts to look more like himself, he scrubs both hands over his face and says, “I need a few minutes.”

 

Before Stiles can say anything, he’s up and gone, probably heading for the bathroom to clear his head.

 

Once he’s been gone for a few moments, Allison says, “I’m _so_ sorry.”

 

She looks genuinely shaken.

 

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes. “Yeah, me too.”

 

“It wouldn’t be the first time my family has ruined a relationship for me,” she admits. “So I can get a little defensive, I guess. But I mean… I was _sure_ you already knew. You’re his best friend—like, he talks about you _all_ the time—and when you started in with the third degree, I assumed it was because of Scott. Friend protecting friend, you know?”

 

Stiles shakes his head, still blown away by this whole situation. He’s sure he’ll be more freaked out later, but right now he just feels terrible.

 

“It’s not your fault. Not totally, anyway. I have another friend. A, uh… a slave. He suffered a lot under your family, so I couldn’t stand the idea of Scott dating one of you guys. I guess you really are different, but uh, shit.” He groans. “What a way to find out.”

 

“Yeah,” Allison says quietly, and then there’s silence.

 

Scott doesn’t come back for at least five minutes, and when he does, he looks ashamed.

 

His head is hung low, his eyes downcast. His arms are hanging at his sides, both hands curling uncertainly in and out of fists.

 

“Scott?” Stiles says gently, prompting him to look up.

 

“Yeah?”

 

Instead of answering, Stiles strides over, enveloping him in a tight hug. Scott is stiff at first, but Stiles doesn’t care. He hugs, and hugs, and hugs, till Scott finally slumps into him, raising his arms to hug back.

 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles after a while.

 

“I love you no matter what,” Stiles says firmly. His tone brooks no argument. “And I don’t know what you’re sorry for.” When Scott tries to answer, he amends, “I don’t _care_ what you’re sorry for. Do I wish you had told me? Yeah, of course. Do I get why you didn’t tell me? Yeah, of _course_. Okay, dude?”

 

Scott makes a noise suspiciously close to a muffled sob, and Stiles just hugs him tighter.

 

“It’s okay,” he insists. “Everything is going to be okay.”

 

* * *

 

Somehow, they all finally end up settled in the living room, Scott and Stiles on opposite ends of the couch and Allison in a chair across from them. Stiles would really like to bring Scott back to his house so they can sort this out, but Allison has to be taken care of first. She’s the wildcard here, even if she seems to genuinely want to fix this.

 

They sit in silence for a while, but Allison is eventually the first to speak.

 

“I’m really, _really_ sorry, Scott.”

 

He only nods.

 

“You guys are best friends,” she goes on, “and when he got defensive about werewolves, it just seemed natural that it was because of you. I mean, I knew it wouldn’t be too hard to figure out who I am, so it’s not like I was shocked or anything. I just. Thought he knew who _you_ were, too.”

 

Stiles doesn’t like that, the implication that he _doesn’t know Scott_ , just because he didn’t know this. He knows she didn’t mean it in a hurtful way, that this whole situation is just really complicated. He also knows that… Well. It _is_ kind of true. He doesn’t know how long this has been a part of Scott’s life, but it must be at least a little while now if Allison was able to figure it out. If it was longer… why hadn’t _he_ been able to tell?

 

“How did you know?” Scott asks. “Did I… do something?”

 

“Not really,” Allison says, shrugging uncomfortably. “I can’t really describe it. I just… _knew_. I’ve been around werewolves my entire life. I’ve been trained to recognize this stuff. There are certain things you guys do, say, that are just. Different. Your senses are too good, sometimes. You respond _too_ well to my feelings, because you can smell them. Once or twice you seemed to hear faint things a little too easily. Other stuff, too. You really don’t need to worry, Scott. It’s not stuff a normal person would ever notice. It’s really not even stuff a hunter would notice in a normal interaction with you. It’s just because we’ve been… really intimately, you know, spending a lot of time together.”

 

“Well, she’s definitely right that a normal person wouldn’t have been able to tell,” Stiles agrees. “I, uh. Certainly missed it. I mean, I’ve seen you since this happened, haven’t I? It was so recent.”

 

“Yeah,” Scott agrees. He’s not forthcoming with more information, and instead just shakes his head. “I can’t believe you figured it out so easily. I need to- Something. I don’t know. Oh, my God.”

 

“It’s really okay, Scott,” Allison promises. “I mean it; no one would be able to tell unless they were specifically looking out for it, and I kind of just specifically look out for it in everyone. Unless you’re spending a lot of time around other hunters, there’s no reason you shouldn’t be totally fine. Honestly, I’m surprised you were willing to spend any time around _me_ , once you realized who I was.”

 

Scott shrugs helplessly.

 

“I don’t know. I’ve never had a problem before, I didn’t think you’d be able to tell so easily. And I just… really liked you. It was a stupid move, I guess, but I didn’t want to stop seeing you.”

 

Allison gives him a sad smile.

 

“That’s really sweet,” she says. “Maybe a little stupid. But, uh. Really sweet.”

 

She smiles again, brighter now, tucking a wisp of hair behind her ear. Scott smiles back, the first positive emotion he’s shown yet.

 

The look falters a little when he says, “You really aren’t going to tell anyone, right?”

 

“Scott, I would _never_. After that? I’m never going to just assume someone knows again. And I got away from my family for a reason, so you definitely don’t have to worry about that. Are Stiles and I the only ones who know, now?”

 

“And my mom.” Looking to Stiles, he adds, “And uh. Derek. He knows too.”

 

Stiles is very confused on why Scott would tell _Derek_ , but not _him_ , till he realizes Derek must have been able to smell it. Huh. Now he wishes _two_ people had told him, but he’s pleased that Derek cared enough about Scott to keep quiet.

 

“Derek?” Allison asks, brow furrowing. “That’s not… Sorry, I know it’s not my business. But that’s not the werewolf you mentioned, is it?”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles says carefully. “He is.”

 

He knows Derek wouldn’t necessarily appreciate Stiles talking to an Argent about him, but the look on Allison’s face is intriguing.

 

“Spiral tattoo? On his back?”

 

“That’s the one.”

 

“Oh,” she says, voice low. “I get it, then. Why you were so suspicious. Don’t, uh, worry about it.”

 

“You remember him?” Stiles asks, intrigued.

 

He knows some owners barely bothered learning Derek’s name, and it’s not like Allison even owned Derek. Besides, Derek said he’d never even interacted with her. Stiles figures maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration; he probably did chores around her sometimes, or saw her with Kate once in a while, but otherwise, that’s what he said.

 

“Hard to forget. The way Kate treated him was really… Well, it was bad. I guess it’s not my place to say. But he was one of the reasons I wanted to get away from it all. Kate and I used to be really close. Sometimes she would tell me about him, and I- I _hated_ it. I hated that she was capable of doing things like that. He wasn’t much older than me, and some of the stuff she did to him was…” She swallows hard. “And those are only the things she found appropriate to share with her teenage niece. I’m… glad he’s in better company now.”

 

“Me too,” is all Stiles finds himself able to say. “I’m glad you’re not like _her_.”

 

“I know,” Allison says. “And I’m _not_ , Scott. I don’t know if you still want this, _us_ , to be a thing, and it’s okay if you don’t. I know it seems like kind of a power imbalance, now. And I know that’s what it was before, anyway, even if we both only knew it in secret, but it’s okay if you change your mind. Now, or _ever_. There is nothing you could ever do—fight, lie, cheat, anything—that would make me tell your secret, but you don’t deserve to worry about it if you’re uncomfortable. The last thing I want is to make this any harder on you.”

 

“I… I have to think about it. I mean. I knew you were a hunter before. And you knew I was a-” he pauses for a second, swallows, like he’s not used to announcing it- “werewolf. So it’s not that different, I guess. I need some time to process… _everything_ from today. But. I really like you, Allison.”

 

Allison grins, bright and sincere, and Stiles can see why Scott is having such a hard time.

 

“I like you too, Scott. No matter what.”

 

* * *

 

Before Allison leaves, she assures Scott many more times that they can do _whatever_ he wants, and _whatever_ he’s comfortable with, and that she just wants him to be happy, and Stiles thinks someone as nice as her may just be the perfect person for Scott. But that is something to consider later. Right now, he’s driving Scott over to his house so they can talk about things more personally. They would’ve stayed at Scott’s, but Stiles has no idea how long this will last, and he told Derek he would be home by eight. Besides, Derek is kind of involved in this too, and Stiles has a sneaking suspicion Scott would be more comfortable with another werewolf around. Scott didn’t object when he suggested it, so now they’re two blocks from his house.

 

The ride has been mostly silent. If they started talking about the elephant in the room—the werewolf in the Jeep?—who knows if they would even make it into the house. They reach Stiles’ driveway and get out, and Stiles sticks his key in the door.

 

“Scott is here,” he announces loudly, entering the house. “You around, Der?”

 

“Right here,” Derek says, thumping down the stairs. “How’ve you been, Scott?”

 

Scott laughs dryly. He still looks almost sick.

 

“I’ve been better.”

 

“Yeah?” Derek asks, taking a seat on the couch. “Why’s that?”

 

Scott takes up the arm chair, and Stiles sits down to Derek’s left.

 

“Stiles _knows_.”

 

“Knows?”

 

“About me,” Scott clarifies.

 

“What about you?”

 

Derek either doesn’t get it, or is better at keeping secrets than Allison.

 

“I know I’m the only human in this room right now,” Stiles pipes up.

 

“Oh,” Derek says.

 

And that’s all he says. Apparently, he’s trying to get a read on the situation before he comments further.

 

“So yeah,” Scott murmurs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ve _definitely_ been better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BOOM! You guys have been killing me lately whenever you asked how long it would be till Stiles found out, cause I wanted to be like _SO soon, I swear!_ ;) I wanted to have Stiles' reaction/discussion/etc in this chapter too, but it was getting way too long and it's been a while since I've posted, so. Next time! Anyway, I've been having a truly and deeply hellish week and a half, and I figured posting this would be a good way to get my spirits up a little. Hopefully it improves your night a little, too  <3 As always, comments are very much appreciated.


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the insane wait, but [this](http://stilesbansheequeen.tumblr.com/post/163031459448/im-gonna-update-a-different-kind-of-alpha-and-to)  
> is by far my most legitimate excuse ever. (Linked from tumblr so you can skip the unpleasantness if you want.)

“You just came from dinner with Allison,” Derek says suddenly, apparently putting two and two together. “Scott, does _she_ know?”

 

Scott sighs.

 

“Who do you think told Stiles?”

 

“ _Scott_ ,” Derek says, standing. He seems unsure of what to do once he’s up, but looks between Scott and Stiles in something of a panic. “What are you doing _here_? Stiles, you’re harboring a werewolf, and Scott, you _are_ one. Did you two lose your minds?”

 

“It’s not like that,” Stiles says, gently grabbing Derek’s wrist. He doesn’t know what kind of bad memories this is bringing back for him, although he seems much more concerned for Scott than for himself. “She’s not going to tell anyone.”

 

Derek looks at him like he’s an idiot.

 

“Stiles, she just told _you_.”

 

“It was an accident.”

 

“You don’t _accidentally_ reveal that someone is a werewolf,” Derek snaps, crossing his arms. “You don’t _accidentally_ put someone’s life on the line. Especially when you’re a hunter.”

 

“She thought I knew,” Stiles says, trying to sound calming. “I’m his best friend.”

 

“You can’t just make assumptions like that and she knows it. Why would she think that _just_ because you two are friends, that you would know something like _that_ about him?”

 

“Well, I sort of accidentally implied it,” Stiles says, rubbing at the back of his neck.

 

Derek sits back down, on the coffee table this time, so he can face Scott and Stiles at the same time.

 

“How did you do that? You didn’t even know.”

 

Stiles sighs.

 

“Well, I sort of got really defensive about werewolves. Y’know. Cause of you. I kept defending them—not that she was saying anything bad, or even talking about them, I was just acting like a dick—and she clearly thought I was talking about Scott, not you, so finally she got mad and said I didn’t have to be so rude just because my best friend is a werewolf.” Scott cringes at the memory. “And. Well. Apparently my best friend _is_ a werewolf.”

 

“Well that's great,” Derek says, clearly reluctant to cut her much slack. “Still, you don’t just- You can’t expose someone like that. What if it had been someone else? Anyone but you?”

 

“I don’t know,” Scott says, finally speaking up. “I… I don’t. But I don’t think she would’ve done it if it was someone besides my best friend. And I don’t think she meant to.”

 

“Intent doesn’t matter when you fuck up like that.”

 

“She was really sorry, Derek,” Stiles tries. “I mean, you had to be there, but believe me, she didn’t mean it. And if she was going to do something malicious like that, wouldn’t she have told someone besides me? Wouldn’t she have called her dad and taken Scott in,” Scott seems to shrink in on himself at that, and Stiles curses himself, “instead of randomly telling me? I’m not gonna do anything about it, and I think she would’ve known that. Yes, she fucked up, but I don’t think she was purposely trying to hurt Scott, and she sure as hell didn’t seem like she would do it again.”

 

“I could hear her heartbeat,” Scott offers. “She wasn’t lying when she said it was an accident, or when she apologized. She meant it.”

 

And that hits Stiles in a weird way, that Scott can hear heartbeats. That he can smell emotions and heal wounds and do all the same crazy things as Derek.

 

“No, you _think_ she meant it,” Derek says. “No one lies like a hunter. They’re trained to disguise their heartbeats or talk around the truth. I bet she is too.”

 

“Derek, _you’re_ the one who told me she’s not that bad? Why are you suddenly going back on that?”

 

“I don’t know, Scott, why is _she_ suddenly telling people you’re a werewolf?”

 

Scott groans, and buries his face in his hands.

 

“I don’t _know_. It was an _accident_. You’re the one who told me about that time she helped you out, and that that friend of yours said she’s not like her family.”

 

Stiles frowns. He never heard any of this. When did Allison help Derek? And what friend of Derek’s?

 

“Yeah, well, people change.”

 

“Do you really think she changed?” Scott asks earnestly, looking up at him. “Do you really think she’s trying to hurt me here?”

 

Derek sighs.

 

“I don’t _know_. But when it comes to hunters, I’ve learned it’s better to be safe than sorry. I think it’s smarter to lose out on a potentially great girlfriend than to lose out on life. I think she could hurt you and your mother and Stiles and anyone else who knew about this. I think her family is dangerous and cruel and incredible at lying. Is she going to hurt you? I don’t know. But why take the _chance,_ Scott?”

 

“Well what do I _do_? She already knows. I can’t fix that.”

 

“I don’t know,” Derek says, shaking his head. “What you do is up to you, I guess. If I was you, I’d run. Something tells me you’re not gonna do that.”

 

“Everything I have is here,” Scott says. “My job, my home, my mom, Stiles. I can’t just up and leave.”

 

“You’re going to do what you want.” He drags a hand over his stubble. “But remember I warned you.”

 

Scott heaves a heavy sigh.

 

“Yeah, man. I know you’re just worried about me. But in these circumstances, I really don’t think she was trying to fuck me over. I think it was an honest mistake.”

 

Derek shrugs.

 

“Fine, Scott. But I’d sleep with one eye open for a while. “

 

* * *

 

“So… if that’s… settled,” Stiles says, cutting in in what may be the most awkward possible way. “Can we maybe, uh… talk about this in terms of us?”

 

“Yeah,” Scott sighs. “Yeah. What do you want to know?”

 

He looks equally, if not more, freaked out than Stiles. Actually, definitely more, and Stiles tries to sound more gentle when he speaks again.

 

“I don’t know. Fuck, um. When, I guess? How long?”

 

“Nine years.”

 

“ _Nine_ years?”

 

Scott nods, swallowing thickly.

 

“When we were… Dude, no way. _Sixteen_? How could you have kept it hidden that long?”

 

“By not telling anyone, ever,” Scott says quietly. “Not even my best friend.”

 

“Oh, my _God_.”

 

“I know. I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t- I mean, don’t be _sorry_. I’m shocked, but I’m not… I’m not upset or anything.”

 

“That’s a lie,” Scott says, looking away.

 

It’s a pointed reference to all the things Stiles never knew he could do, and Stiles lets out a shaky breath.

 

“Okay. So _yes_ , obviously, I wish you’d told me sooner. But I mean, I get why you didn’t. It hurts, but this… It really isn’t _about_ me. It’s about you being safe. Like, clearly you’re scared, even right now. Why’re you…? You have to know I would never- I would never do _anything_ to hurt you.”

 

“It’s hard,” Derek interjects. He clears his throat. “I had really close friends when I was younger, but I never told anyone. And the first person I told, someone I thought loved me… You know what happened. I’m sure Scott knew you would never hurt him, but every single person who knows is just one more liability, one more person you have to worry about letting it slip. Like Allison. He didn’t even tell her, and _still_ she…”

 

“Yeah,” Scott agrees, looking grateful. “Stiles, I love you, but… I didn’t even tell my own mother. She only knows because she walked in on me during a full moon once. It’s not a matter of trust, you guys are my _family_ , but I- I didn’t even trust myself not to fuck it up, you know? So it’s not… It was never you. My mom forbade me to tell you, and I was too afraid to, anyway. But I’m sorry, okay? I trust you more than anyone and I’m really, really sorry.”

 

“Stop,” Stiles says, shaking his head. “Stop, Scott. Dude, I love you, too. It’s- I wish you had told me, but not because I just plain wanted to know. Or hey, let’s be honest, it’s probably like five percent that. I wish you had told me because I’m selfish and I wish you thought I could’ve handled it, and petty things like that. But I am _a million times_ more concerned about other things. I wish you had told me so I could’ve been there for you. You must’ve been scared to death. You must _still_ be scared to death, like, _all_ the time. I remember how much you freaked out when you found out I had Derek, I just didn’t know why. And God, how many situations have we been in over the years where I could’ve helped you hide it? How many have we been in where I pressured you to do something that would’ve outed you without even knowing it?”

 

“A lot,” Scott admits. “But that’s not your responsibility, Stiles. I was busy enough worrying about it, I didn’t need to burden you with it, too. And honestly, I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve wanted to tell you over the years. I even tried a couple of times. I just couldn’t. I was too terrified to tell _anyone_ , to even _think_ about it in the beginning, and then as time went on, it just seemed impossible to bring up. Like, five months later, five _years_ later, I was just supposed to be like ‘oh, by the way…’? I didn’t know what to do.”

 

“It’s fine, Scotty.” And it really is. He’s feeling calmer now. It’s freaky, but it’s fine. “To tell you the truth, I probably _would_ have been really worried and freaked out, which definitely wouldn’t have helped. Like, Derek can vouch for me that I knew next to nothing about werewolves. All that matters is I know now, and I’m here for you any time you need me, and I will _never_ tell anyone. Okay?”

 

Scott nods, smiling for the first time.

 

“Yeah, man. I know. Of course I do. I always worried about this, but I had no real reason to. It’s just one of those things you build up in your head, you know?”

 

“I get it,” Stiles says, giving him a strained smile in return. “Phew. Wow. Okay. So why don’t you tell me how this happened?”

 

* * *

 

“You have to promise you won’t get upset,” Scott says. “This is… another reason I didn’t want to tell you.”

 

“I promise. Whatever it is, Scott, it’s fine.”

 

Scott looks doubtful, but he seems to steel himself, and begins.

 

“So like I said, we were sixteen when it happened. Do you remember that night we went out into the woods to look for that body? The one you heard about on your dad’s police scanner?”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles says slowly, already concerned about where this is going. “What about it?”

 

“Well, remember when your dad found you out there, and he dragged you home? And I was behind a tree, so he didn’t know I was there? Well, I was going to leave the preserve too, because I definitely didn’t want to be there alone, but it was really dark and I’d dropped my inhaler. I had to stop to look for it, and then I heard these weird sounds. I was just going to get out of there, but before I could, something tackled me to the ground and bit me. Here,” he says, rubbing a hand over a spot on the left side of his abdomen. “So, uh.” He exhales harshly. “Yeah. That was an alpha, obviously. And. Now I’m a werewolf.”

 

“Fuck,” Stiles breathes. “ _Fuck_ , Scott. So I- So it’s _my_...?”

 

“No,” Scott says quickly. “Of course not, Stiles. I’ve never blamed you.”

 

“But it is,” Stiles says, fists clenching in his lap as he thinks about it, horror slowly washing over him. “It _is_. I’m the one who forced you out there, Scott. I remember that night. You were asleep in bed and I woke you up, dragged you out there. You didn’t even want to go, but I wanted to see if we could find that body. God, that thing could’ve killed _you_.”

 

A lump forms in Stiles’ throat as he takes in the fact that he ruined his best friend’s life. He has to be on constant guard, has to constantly worry, has to constantly hide his real self because of Stiles. God, why did his teenage self even think it was a _remotely_ bright idea to go look for a dead body? There was a dead body out there because something _killed_ it. The same thing that could’ve killed Scott. The same thing that could’ve killed _him_ , or at least turned him, if he hadn’t gotten out of there two minutes earlier. Holy shit.

 

“But it didn’t,” Scott says gently. “I’m _fine_ , Stiles.”

 

“No, dude, you’re _not_. You’re a werewolf. You can’t date the girl you want. You have to be careful working in the field you want.  Your life is in constant danger. And it’s because of _me_.”

 

“I didn’t have to go with you,” Scott says. “I could’ve stayed in bed.”

 

“Like I would’ve let you stay in bed.”

 

“You promised you wouldn’t get upset.”

 

“That was before I knew this was all my fault.”

 

“Stiles, it wasn’t _your_ fault! I was sixteen too, I was old enough to know going out there was dangerous, but we did it, _together_ , and I’m facing the consequences. This is another reason I didn’t want to tell you—I didn’t want you to blame yourself.”

 

“How could I not?”

 

“Because you didn’t _do_ anything. It was the _alpha’s_ fault, not yours.”

 

Stiles huffs.

 

“Well what happened to him? Did you get a look at him?”

 

“Yeah,” Scott sighs. “Yeah, I did.”

 

“Did they catch him? Was it on the news?”

 

“Yeah,” Scott says, voice low. “They caught him. _After_ this happened.”

 

Stiles stares in shock as Scott’s eyes glow bright red for a few seconds before fading back to their warm, chocolatey brown.

 

“You’re an _alpha_?”

 

Scott glances around the room nervously, like someone might be waiting behind the couch to ambush him.

 

“Yeah,” he sighs. “And that’s not all.”

 

“That’s not _all_? What else could there _be_?”

 

“When they got the guy, he was alive.”

 

“What?”

 

“The alpha. They caught him alive. And as an alpha. But by that time, _I_ was already an alpha.”

 

“What?” Stiles asks again, frowning. “What does that mean? How could you both be alpha?”

 

“You remember when that house burned down?”

 

“Who could forget?” Stiles mutters, grimacing at the memory.

 

Scott clearly doesn’t want to go into too much detail on house fires around Derek, but Stiles remembers it vividly. It was all over the news when it happened. Everyone was briefly obsessed with the asthmatic 18-year-old who went into a burning building to pull out two kids before the fire department arrived. The parents couldn’t get upstairs to their children’s rooms in the inferno and had to get out. Scott came across them on his way home from a late shift at the clinic and stopped to see what was going on. The public story was that an adrenaline rush allowed him to make his way up to the window using cracks in the brick of the house as footholds, and pull the two little kids through the window.

 

“You had that awful asthma attack by the time you were all back on the ground.”

 

A picture of him doubled over behind the smoldering house, taking a hit of his inhaler, made the front page of every major newspaper.

 

“Well, everyone thought I did,” Scott says. “Had to make it believable, and I never stopped carrying the inhaler.” Stiles realizes that’s true. Scott wouldn’t need the inhaler after being bitten, but he still carried it everywhere, even to this day. He even pretends to _use_ it sometimes. “When they took me to the hospital for smoke inhalation, Mom ‘took care’ of me.”

 

“Man, you really are good at keeping this a secret.”

 

“Used to be, anyway,” Scott mutters. “I might have to keep my guard up more, now.”

 

Stiles grimaces.

 

“So, what does the fire have to do with you becoming an alpha?”

 

“I didn’t get it at first, either,” Scott says. “I don’t exactly go around flashing my eyes all the time, so it took me a while to notice. Over time I realized I was healing small injuries faster, that my hearing and smell seemed to be getting better, things like that. At first, I just thought I was getting better at using my powers. But then, on the full moon, I took my suppressants like usual, and my eyes glowed _red_. And the suppressants didn't really work on an alpha.” He sighs. “It was terrifying, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it. I figured the alpha who bit me had died, and his power passed to me. But I was wrong."

 

“Because he was alive,” Stiles says slowly. “But how…?”

 

“It took me a while to figure it out. Like I said, for a few months I just thought the guy had died. But then one day, I saw him on the local news. I only saw him in the dark that night, but it was _definitely_ him. I think something… _inside_ me even recognized him, as corny as that sounds. Like he was my alpha, and I _knew_ it was him. But the report was saying they caught him and brought him into an alpha facility. He was still alive, but I was an alpha too.”

 

“How is that possible?” Stiles asks. “I know I don’t know much about werewolves, but _that_ doesn’t sound right.”

 

“Exactly,” Scott says. “I had to do a lot of research, but I finally figured it out. You ever hear of a true alpha?”

 

“…I don’t think so, no.”

 

“Well Derek has. Right?”

 

“Yeah,” Derek says, speaking for the first time in a long time. He looks less freaked out now, and more solemn. “It’s someone who rises to alpha status through just… strength of character, or force of will. It’s _rare_. So rare I wasn’t even sure they existed. My parents had a few stories about them, but there hasn’t been one, at least one out of hiding, in a hundred years. There were rumors in the werewolf community that the general who led the werewolves in the war was one, but there’s no way for us to know. Supposedly they have greater powers, some we don’t even know about. But it’s all muddled. It’s hard to say what’s true and what’s not.”

 

“Right,” Scott says. “It’s… I don’t know what’s true. I’m just some guy, I’m not this perfect, virtuous, _whatever_. Firemen and police and lifeguards and soldiers and _lots of people_ save people every day, and some of them are probably werewolves too, but I don’t think there are a million true alphas running around. And I don’t know what to think about the force of will thing, because… I don’t think I needed to be an alpha to save those kids. I mean, _maybe_ because I was having trouble getting into their room? But I definitely didn’t _want_ to become one. So… I don’t know. I just know I’m an alpha and the man who bit me is an alpha and we’re both alive. There’s more to it, too, more technical stuff, but… it’s a lot to explain. It’s just… this is what I am.” He sounds so tired. “And if the hunters found out, I’m sure they’d love to experiment. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I just _couldn’t_. But now you know everything. So…” He blows out a long, slow breath. “That’s it, Stiles.”

 

“Wow,” Stiles murmurs. “Wow. Okay, man. This was a lot, but I’m glad I finally know. And… I’m sorry.” Scott starts to object, but Stiles bulldozes over him. “Even if you say it’s not my fault, or I couldn’t have known. I’m sorry I dragged you out there, and I’m sorry this happened, and I’m sorry I didn’t realize, and I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help you. But I’m gonna make it up to you.”

 

“Stiles, you don’t have to _make it up to me_ , I went with you into the preserve, and I kept this from you, and I didn’t ask for help.”

 

“I know, dude. I know. But now I know, and I’m going to make sure nothing bad _ever_ happens to you.”

 

Scott smiles, small but warm, and Stiles just- _needs_ him to know it really will be okay.

 

He stands, and Scott does too, allowing Stiles to pull him in for a big bear hug.

 

“I love you, man,” Scott murmurs. His voice is a little thick, and… Yeah. Today has been a lot. “Thank you.”

 

“I love you too, idiot,” Stiles says hugging him tighter. “No more deep, dark secrets, okay?”

 

Scott nods vigorously into his shoulder.

 

“Okay,” he says quietly.

 

“Good.”

 

* * *

 

“Why don’t you stay here tonight, just in case,” Stiles asks, when he and Scott finally pull apart. “It’d probably make you feel better. And Derek, too.”

 

That does _not_ make Derek feel better.

 

“Are you worried about her?” he asks.

 

“ _I’m_ not worried, and I don’t think you should be either. Allison seemed completely genuine. But _you_ guys are clearly worried, and you have a right to be, so Scott probably shouldn’t just… head home. And I doubt he wants to be alone, either.”

 

“If we’re worried about the Argents showing up,” Derek says carefully. “I’d rather not be here. Allison knows you know, and it wouldn’t be hard for them to find your house.”

 

“It’s not like Allison knows where I live,” Stiles points out.

 

“Uh, actually,” Scott says, frowning. “You mentioned knowing Derek, so… _if_ we’re being cautious tonight, consider that they could technically just look through your papers if they figure you _own_ him.”

 

Derek’s stomach twists unpleasantly.

 

“You mentioned owning me?”

 

Stiles bites his lip.

 

“I... I think so? Or at least that I know you. Everything was a whirlwind. Fuck, I’m sorry. I just- I mentioned that I know a werewolf who had to deal with Kate, and then later your name came up in regard to something else, and she put two and two together. I know you said you hardly interacted, but she actually… remembered you. She said- well, I don’t know if you want to hear.”

 

Derek shrugs. He may as well. Maybe he can figure out what the fuck kind of person Allison is these days.

 

“I know it’s not my business, but she, uh. She said Kate used to tell her about you. A lot. She didn’t tell me about it, that’s _so_ not my business, but she said it made her sick. And that you, specifically, are a big part of the reason she doesn’t associate with her family anymore. I don’t know if that makes you feel better, or worse, or- But that’s it.”

 

Derek doesn’t know either, and he doesn’t know what to say.

 

After a prolonged silence, Scott says, “Why don’t we go to a hotel for the night? I’m… I’m sure it’s fine, but let’s just make everyone feel better. Okay?”

 

“Hotels are expensive,” Stiles says sheepishly. “The month is almost over; Jackson and Lydia don’t pay me till the first.”

 

“I’ll pay,” Scott says. “And we’ll go somewhere cheap, like Motel California. It’s just one night, and a seedy place like that isn’t somewhere they’d look, anyway. Is that better, Derek?”

 

“Yeah,” Derek sighs, finally standing. Better than nothing, anyway. “Let’s get out of here.”

 

* * *

 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, once they’re in their room. The little motel only had two rooms left, and after a lot more hugging, Scott finally went to settle down in his. And Stiles is glad. He _deserves_ some sleep after today. “About. Talking to Allison about you. I didn’t mean to invade your privacy or anything.”

 

Derek shrugs, getting into the queen-sized bed.

 

“You didn’t do it on purpose.” After a moment, he adds, “She didn’t tell you anything personal, did she?”

 

Stiles shakes his head forcefully.

 

“No. No, no way. And if she had tried, I would’ve stopped her. I know everything that happened to you with that bitch is- It’s yours. You never have to tell me. You can always talk to me if you want to, but I heard _more_ than enough when she came for your collar. I just. I hope you’re okay. That you’re getting better. And that nothing comes of this thing with Scott, which is still…” He drags a hand over his face. “ _Fucking_ crazy. I just want you guys to be okay. Okay?”

 

“Okay,” Derek says quietly. “Let’s get some sleep. You had a long day.”

 

Stiles’ mouth twists as he looks at the bed. There’s plenty of room, but there’s only one.

 

“If you want, I can sleep on the floor,” he offers tentatively. “Or, um. Scott’s probably still awake. If you want to take his bed, he can come sleep here with me, and-”

 

“Stiles,” Derek says, exasperated. “Just get in the bed. I trust you. You’re _you_.”

 

“Uh, okay,” Stiles says awkwardly. “I’ll just…”

 

He climbs into bed, leaving as much space as possible between him and Derek. Just because Derek doesn’t know about Stiles’ feelings for him doesn’t mean Stiles shouldn’t try to suppress them. He’s not going to let himself do anything even _remotely_ invasive. So he’s very safe all the way over here, on his side of the bed.

 

Derek gives him a weird look, but doesn’t say anything, just flops over so he’s facing the other direction.

 

“Night, man,” Stiles says softly. “Thanks for being good to Scott.”

 

“Thanks for being good to me,” Derek says, just as quiet, and turns off the lamp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. A heavy few chapters. I'd love to hear your thoughts <3


	38. Chapter 38

Derek is only confused for a few moments when he wakes up in a strange bed in a strange place with a strange person lying next to him.

 

It takes him just a couple of seconds to realize the place is Motel California and the person is Stiles, who’s just as firmly on his side of the bed as he was last night. Like Stiles, Derek thought sleeping with and waking up next to his owner might bother him, but Stiles just feels like… a friend. Waking up next to Boyd and Erica and Isaac never bothered him, and this feels just the same. Besides, Kate and Jennifer almost never let him actually sleep in their beds when they were through with him, so he’s hardly had bad experiences waking up next to an owner anyway.

 

Stiles is still asleep, half his face buried firmly in the pillow, and he looks so peaceful. His hair is a little tousled and his clothes are rumpled. He looks kind of nice, with the soft, yellow sunlight streaming through the crappy motel curtains to spill over his face. As happens more and more lately, Derek is filled with an overwhelming sense of warmth while looking at him. He smiles to himself, still a little sleepy, and settles back under the covers.

 

* * *

 

“Stiles!”

 

Scott’s voice breaks through Stiles’ peaceful haze, and he slowly sits up in bed, eyes still closed.

 

“Wha…?”

 

Derek laughs, a low rumble.

 

“I’ve got it,” he says quietly. “We’ve gotta check out soon.” There’s the grating sound of the old door creaking open, and he says, “Morning, Scott.”

 

Stiles slowly blinks his eyes open as Scott walks briskly into the room, sitting down on the foot of the bed.

 

“Allison left me three messages,” he announces, wiggling his phone at Stiles. “Three.”

 

“What did she say?” Stiles asks, feeling more awake as he rubs the sleep out of his eyes. He’s glad Derek woke up before him because he would’ve felt _painfully_ awkward lying in bed with a sleeping Derek. “Did she know you weren’t home?”

 

“I don’t know,” Scott says. “I came over here as soon as I saw.”

 

“Play them,” Derek says. He looks much more put together than the two of them, having already fixed his hair, smoothed his clothes, and put on shoes. “Might as well see if we need to hole up here any longer.”

 

“Okay,” Scott breathes. “Alright.”

 

He puts his phone on speaker and holds it up for all of them to hear as he hits play on the first message.

 

 _Hey, Scott, it’s Allison. Um. I guess you already knew that. Caller ID and all._ _I just wanted to see if you’re doing alright. I’m…_ really _sorry about everything that happened tonight. I’m still kind of reeling, and I’m sure you are too. I don’t want to keep you too long, but… maybe call me, if you get a chance? I just… I’m so sorry, Scott. I really hope you can forgive me._

 

“That was around eleven last night,” Scott sighs. “Then there’s another about an hour later.”

 

 _Hi, Scott, it’s me again. I just- please call me. I understand if you never want to see me again, but I just need to talk to you one more time. I need to know that you’re okay. You_ have _to know I would never do anything to hurt you. You’re one of the nicest people I’ve ever met, and if anyone didn’t deserve to have that happen to them, it’s you. And… and I know Stiles is friends with Derek Hale, and maybe you are too, and that’s-_ Her breath hitches, and she sounds a little tearful. The room is deathly silent as they wait for her to gather herself, and Stiles doesn’t dare look at Derek. _I get it, if that’s it. Kate is… But I’m not her, Scott, I’m_ not _. I promise I’m not. But-_ She takes a deep breath. _But, listen. If it’s because of him, then… I get it. I do. That was a really sick situation and if me being related to someone like that is too much for you, then I understand that. I’m not her, but that’s what I come from. There’s no way around it. But if you could just… call me? Please? I need some kind of closure here, and I guess I probably don’t deserve it after what I did to you, but I just have to make sure that you’re okay. If you don’t feel like you can answer me that’s fine. I’ll, um, ask Lydia how you’re doing soon, I guess. So… don’t feel paranoid or something if she mentions that. I just really want you to be okay. I’m sorry, Scott. Goodbye._

 

Stiles finally risks a glance at Derek, and Scott is waiting for him to say something too.

 

Derek swallows hard, shrugs.

 

“Play the last one,” he says after a moment.

 

“Okay,” Scott agrees quietly. “This was just now. Maybe half an hour ago.”

 

 _Scott? Hey, it’s me again. Last call, I promise. I was kind of an emotional wreck last night, obviously, so I’m sorry about that. I’m sure you were dealing with enough of your own problems and worries, so how I felt really wasn’t that important. I’ve been thinking about this pretty much constantly, trying to come up with a way to make this okay. Not because of_ us _or anything, because that’s probably over, but just because you deserve to feel better._ _And I don’t know if this would help, because maybe you never want anything to do with me again, and that’s okay too. But… Stiles mentioned that he’s writing a book on werewolves? And I was thinking… Well. Maybe I could endorse it? I’ve got some money, and… my name. That would be kind of a big thing, right? An Argent endorsing a book about a runaway werewolf? Maybe it’s crazy, I don’t know, but I thought maybe that would make you feel I’m really being sincere, and it could really help your cause. I could probably get on some talk shows about it and all that? I don’t know if that’s something he would want, or if he wants absolutely nothing to do with the Argents. That’s okay, too. I just thought I’d offer. We’re kind of a… big name, obviously. If you want to talk about it more, or let me know how you’re doing, call me back. If not… well, I guess this is all I can do. I’m really sorry, Scott. Thank you for a good time together, and I’m sorry I ruined it. Just… try to remember I’ve known for a while now. Nothing is really different. Except that Stiles knows, obviously. Which… again, I’m sorry about. But I mean, between us. Even if it doesn’t make you want to be together again, that’s fine, but I hope it can at least put your mind at ease. I’ve known for a while. I’m not going to do anything. Okay? Okay. Goodbye, Scott. I hope you never have to deal with something like this again._

 

Scott looks at Stiles. Stiles looks at Derek. Derek looks at the ground.

 

Stiles clears his throat, rubs at the back of his neck.

 

“Uh. So. What’re you thinking, Scotty?”

 

“I think… I need some time to think. Do you guys want to go to my mom’s house for lunch? I want to make sure everything is good with her. You guys can just drop me off if you want, though.”

 

“I think we’re all partners in crime by now,” Stiles says. “Derek, you feel up to meeting Scott’s mom? She’s a sweetheart, I promise.”

 

Derek shrugs.

 

“I don’t feel like cooking.”

 

“Good enough,” Scott says. “Meet you at the car in ten minutes.”

 

* * *

 

“So…” Scott says slowly. “What do you think, Derek?”

 

“About what?”

 

“About… me and Allison. About her and Stiles’ book. About what she said about you. About everything.”

 

“I think you’re stupid if you date her,” Derek says bluntly, “but I also think you really, really want to, and nothing I say is going to stop you. People who are in love usually _are_ stupid.” And he would know. “So, if we get to your house and it hasn’t been ransacked, you’re probably okay. Hunters don’t play around. They wouldn’t let you in on the fact that they know and then give you time to run away. She’s stupid and in love too, so she probably _did_ just say it by accident. And if she did, then it’s not up to me if you date her. What happened to me…” He sighs. It is _so. fucking. early._ in the day to be thinking about Kate this much. “Shouldn’t stop you from being happy. You already said I don’t have to ever see her. So if you feel good about dating her… Do what feels right.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “ _If_ they didn’t show up to kill you already. We’re not home yet.”

 

* * *

 

Scott hides out in the car while Derek and Stiles head up to his apartment to look for any suspicious activity.

 

In a stroke of good luck, they run into one of Scott’s elderly neighbors in the hall. Stiles only recognizes her because sometimes she forces rock-hard chocolate chip cookies on Scott and makes him listen to stories about her grandkids. Scott, the saint, never turns her down.

 

“Hey Mrs. Matthews,” Stiles calls, raising a hand in greeting as he comes down the hall. “Remember me? I’m Scott’s friend.”

 

Stiles has had the cookies a few times before too. He’s lucky he still has teeth.

 

“Yes, yes,” she says, stopping halfway through unlocking her door. “Steven, right? So nice to see you again, dear.”

 

Next to him, Derek smirks, and Stiles steps on his foot.

 

“Yeah, mhm,” he says, because why the hell not. Besides, if hunters come and talk to her, at least she won’t say she talked to _Stiles_. “Nice to see you again too. Listen, did you hear any weird noises or anything last night?”

 

“Weird noises?” she asks, frowning. “Nothing besides those terrible kids downstairs blasting their music like always. Scott never does that, he’s a good boy. Are you here to visit him?”

 

“We are,” Stiles lies. “So no weird noises? No… strange people in the building? Nothing out of the ordinary?”

 

“Of course not,” Mrs. Matthews says firmly. “This is a very safe building; my daughter always says so. Why are you so concerned? Did Scott hear something?”

 

“Oh, no, no,” Stiles says, waving her off. “I was just wondering because I heard those, uh. Those rotten college kids who live below you talking about a party. Which I guess… is where the music came from. I just wanted to make sure their guests didn’t disturb you or anything.”

 

“Don’t you worry, dear. Nothing worse than usual. I must’ve been asleep by the time all those others arrived. Kids these days stay up so late into the night. You’re supposed to get a full eight hours of sleep, you know. You always get eight hours, don’t you?”

 

“Yeah, definitely. Don’t you worry about me, Mrs. Matthews.”

 

“Good boy,” she says, looking pleased. Suddenly, she points her cane at Derek. “What about your friend here?”

 

Derek blinks.

 

“What?”

 

“You always get a good night’s sleep, don’t you, Derek?” Stiles says pointedly.

 

“Oh. Um. Yeah, always,” Derek agrees. “Sleep is very important.”

 

“That’s right, young man,” she says. “Would you boys like to come in for some cookies?”

 

“No thank you,” Stiles says, edging toward Scott’s apartment. “We’ve really gotta get to Scott.”

 

“He can come over too. It’s been a while since I’ve gotten to feed him. He’s entirely too muscular.”

 

Stiles has to make a concentrated effort not to laugh.

 

“No, that’s okay, but we’ll all get together soon. I promise. We’ve really gotta go, though, because we’re taking Scott to visit his mother.”

 

“Oh, how nice,” she says, grinning at him with her false teeth. “I hope my son comes to visit soon.”

 

“I’m sure he will,” Stiles says, patting her on the arm as he passes by, Derek in tow. “And if not, I’m sure Scott will be happy to come over tomorrow.”

 

Hey, sue him. He’s on a _mission_ , here.

 

“That would be lovely,” she says. “You have a nice day, Steven. Nice meeting you, Darryl.”

 

“You, too,” Stiles says, hurrying over to Scott’s door. “A very good day.”

 

“I will, dear.”

 

She finally, finally enters her apartment, and Stiles pulls out Scott’s key.

 

“Well that’s a good sign, at least,” Stiles mutters, unlocking the door.

 

Derek gives him a flat look.

 

“Is she really a reliable source, Steven?” 

 

Stiles huffs a laugh.

 

“ _Listen_ , Darryl. She may be a little old, but if there’s one thing that woman remembers, it’s _annoying noises_. I’ve only spoken to her a handful of times, and she never neglects to mention those noisy kids below her. I don’t even think they’re that loud. Scott’s never heard them.”

 

“Well, let’s be sure,” Derek says, pushing open the door.

 

* * *

 

“What do you smell?” Stiles asks, stepping into Scott’s apartment behind Derek. “Everything _looks_ okay.”

 

Derek stops in his tracks, glancing around the apartment.

 

“What?” Stiles asks. “What is it?”

 

“Nothing,” Derek says, shaking his head. “Just- I didn’t expect to remember her scent so well.” 

 

“Kate?” Stiles asks, eyes wide.

 

“No, Allison.”

 

Thank _God_ he doesn’t smell Kate. At this point he really wasn’t expecting it, but still.

 

“You remember what she smells like?”

 

“Apparently.”

 

He steps further into the apartment, carefully smelling the air.

 

“Are you… okay?” Stiles asks hesitantly.

 

“She was alright,” Derek says, slowly opening the door to what must be Scott’s bedroom. “It smells mostly like Scott in here. And animals.”

 

“Vet student,” Stiles says. “Don’t judge him. Any weird people smells?”

 

“No.”

 

He walks out to the kitchen, trying to catch a whiff of anything besides Allison. After he’s made a complete round of the apartment, he stops back by the door.

 

“Nothing,” he says. “It just smells like him and you and Allison. It doesn’t have that completely neutral smell like it would if someone was here and tried to cover their tracks. No one’s been here since the three of you were last night.”

 

“So… you think it’s safe?”

 

“Yeah,” Derek admits. “I think Allison is probably the stupidest person in the entire world, but I think it’s safe.”

 

“Not to… defend an Argent or anything, but it really kind of was my fault, Der. I _really_ made it seem like I knew.”

 

Derek narrows his eyes at him. 

 

“Why were you defending me so much?”

 

Stiles shrugs uncomfortably.

 

“I dunno. Cause… you went through a lot, and I didn’t trust her just like you didn’t trust her, and… I don’t _know_. I care about you. A lot. And now I can see that it’s not her fault and all, and she really seems genuine, but. Just. You’re really important to me, and I never got to tell off Kate like I wanted to, or to like, run her over with my car a few times. So. This was the next best option.”

 

Derek gives him a wry smile.

 

“I care about you too.”

 

Stiles scent gets weirdly happy, but he quickly claps Derek on the back.

 

“I know you do. But don’t _you_ go stupidly defending _me_ and confuse any poor random girls. C’mon, let’s get back outside before Scott gets all worried.”

 

* * *

 

“You’re going to keep dating her, aren’t you?” Derek asks, as Stiles drives them all to Scott’s mother’s house.

 

They figured they might as well give it the rest of the day, as long as they’re being meticulous about it, and Melissa was more than happy to have company. Derek’s a little nervous about meeting her, even if it’s stupid. She’s a human, plain and simple. Then again, her son is a werewolf, so hopefully she’s more accepting than most people.

 

“If she doesn’t kill me?” Scott asks, fiddling with the strings of his hoodie.

 

“If she doesn’t kill you,” Derek agrees lightly.

 

At this point, he really does think Scott is safe, but he still _doesn’t_ think dating a hunter is a good idea. Reformed or otherwise.

 

“If she doesn’t kill me…” Scott says, glancing at Derek in the rearview mirror. “I might date her.”

 

Stiles barks a laugh as he turns a corner.

 

“This is a sick conversation, but okay, weirdos.”

 

“I love her,” Scott says sheepishly. “I never even got to tell her. And maybe it’s stupid, but I do. _And_ Derek said himself that he thinks it’s okay.”

 

“I said I think you probably won’t die,” Derek interjects.

 

“I’m loving this whole dark humor as a coping mechanism thing,” Stiles says, “but uh, can I get a definite _nothing bad is going to happen to your best friend_?”

 

“No,” Derek says honestly. “But I think the odds are very low.”

 

Stiles sighs.

 

“Derek’s right, Scott. You _do_ make bad decisions.”

 

* * *

 

The woman who greets them at the door has curly hair and the same dark, warm eyes as Scott. She’s clad in bright purple scrubs and she looks absolutely exhausted, but still manages to muster up a smile for them.

 

“Oh, you’re early,” she says, pulling Stiles in for a hug. “I haven’t even changed from work yet.”

 

“Sorry, Melissa,” Stiles says, stepping past her into the house. “Please tell me you didn’t just come off the night shift.”

 

“Just a few early-morning hours, but I always have time for my son,” she says, smiling warmly at Scott. “I’ll just run upstairs to freshen up in a minute.” She turns to Derek, who’s still standing awkwardly on the front step, and her smile doesn’t falter. “You must be Derek. I’m Scott’s mother, Melissa. It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

 

She doesn’t reach out to shake his hand or anything, but her voice is gentle and her smile is genuine and Derek likes her more than most humans already. Besides, she’s Scott’s mom, so it’s not like she hates werewolves.

 

“It’s nice to meet you too, Ms. McCall.”

 

“Please, Melissa is fine. Come inside, Derek.”

 

He does, and she closes the door behind him.

 

“Stiles, I called your father as a surprise. He’s always dying to see you these days. You really should visit him more often.” She leans in, lowers her voice. “He gets lonely, you know.”

 

“Oh,” Stiles says, glancing at Derek, who has already resigned himself to this being a very long two days. “Shit, yeah, I know. I’ve been so busy lately, but I’ll make a bigger effort to see him, I promise.”

 

“No cursing in the house,” Melissa says. It’s been a while since Derek has been in the presence of a real mother figure. “He’s in the kitchen working on lunch, you boys can go say hi wile I get dressed. Tell him I’ll be down in a few, alright?”

 

“Sure thing, Melissa,” Stiles says easily, heading towards what must be the kitchen. When she’s out of earshot, he adds, “I’m sorry we’re dragging you all over town, Der.”

 

“It’s fine,” Derek says. “Your dad is nice.”

 

“Still. I’m gonna cook for us for a whole week to make up for it.”

 

Before Derek can answer, joke that he wants a seven-course meal, they reach the kitchen doorway.

 

“Hey!” Mr. Stilinski says, turning to look at them over his shoulder as he mixes a pot on the stove. “How’re you boys doing?”

 

“Hi John,” Scott says, raising a hand in greeting. “Nice to see you.”

 

“You too, kiddo. Nice to see my _son_ , too.”

 

“Hey, Dad,” Stiles says sheepishly, giving his father a sideways hug. “Chili? Smells good.”

 

“Melissa has taught me well, even if she never lets me eat the fun stuff,” John says. “Derek, glad to see you again. What prompted you boys to visit?”

 

“Just felt like seeing Mom, figured I’d bring Stiles and Derek for some good food,” Scott lies. “You don’t have work today?”

 

“Not till later,” John says. “Why don’t you go hang out a while? Mel and I have this taken care of. Actually, _I’ve_ got this taken care of, but you know your mom, Scott. That woman wouldn’t get off her feet if her life depended on it.”

 

“I’ll help her clean up after,” Scott assures him. “See you later, John.”

 

* * *

 

Scott’s room looks like it hasn’t really been touched since he was a teenager, save, presumably, for him and Stiles hanging out up here sometimes. The bed is made, there’s lacrosse gear collecting dust in a corner, and some old school books are piled under his desk.

 

“So… what do you say we call her?” Scott asks, once he’s closed the door.

 

Stiles looks at him with wide eyes as the two of them sit together on Scott’s old bed. Derek sits in his computer chair, looking at him expectantly.

 

“What are you going to say?” Stiles asks.

 

“I don’t know,” Scott admits. “But I have to do it at some point, right? And I’d rather do it with you guys around.”

 

“Whatever you think is best, man.”

 

“I’m going to do it,” Scott decides. “If I don’t do it now, I might not _ever_ do it. Derek… do you want to be here, or…? Stiles and I can just go in the hall for two minutes, if-”

 

“It’s fine,” Derek says. “Call her.”

 

In truth, he’d like to hear what Allison has to say for herself.

 

“Okay,” Scott says. He takes a deep breath. “Okay. I’m going to do it.”

 

Stiles pats his knee.

 

“Good luck, man.”

 

Scott gives him a strained smile as he dials his phone.

 

As it rings, he puts it on speaker and presses a finger to his lips.

 

It only gets through a ring and a half before someone picks up.

 

“Hello?” the voice from the message says, sounding breathless. “Scott?”

 

“Hey, Allison.”

 

“Oh, my God. Scott.” She laughs excitedly, _relieved_ , and Derek’s insides twist. Kate never sounded like that talking to him. Never that… pure happiness. “I’m so glad you called. I’m- I’m gonna start rambling. How are you?”

 

“I’m okay, I think. How are you?”

 

“God, does it matter? I’ve been beating myself up about this since last night and I’m _so glad_ you called.”

 

“I’m glad too,” Scott says. He gives a little laugh, the kind of giddy sound only a person in love really makes. He’s just as happy as she is. “I just wanted to say... You mean it, right? That it was an accident?”

 

“Oh, Scott,” she says, voice soft and sad now. Kate never said _Oh, Derek_ unless it was followed by something cruel and mocking. “Scott, I am _so, so_ sorry. I mean- I don’t even know what to say. How is Stiles reacting? Is he being good to you?”

 

 _Me?_ Stiles mouths at Derek, fake incredulity on his face. _I’m the best!_

 

Derek rolls his eyes.

 

“He is,” Scott says, smiling genuinely at Stiles. “He’s a really, really good friend. If it had to happen, I’m glad it was in front of him.”

 

“But it _didn’t_ have to happen,” Allison says. “It was totally my fault. I should’ve known not to say something like that, no matter _who_ I was talking to or what he was saying. I grew up around this stuff and I- I fucked up, and I’m really sorry, Scott.”

 

“It’s alright, Allison. It’s- I was really worried last night, but it was hard to think straight. I know you. I know you didn’t want to hurt me.”

 

Someone remind Derek why he wanted to be around for this again?

 

“I really, really didn’t. And I know it feels different, Scott, but it’s really not. I’ve known for a _while_ now, and I never did anything, and I’m not _going_ to. I swear on everything. Okay?”

 

“Yeah,” Scott says, looking down at the bed. “I know. It’s- It was just scary. But… like you said. You had plenty of opportunities to do something, and you didn’t, so I guess I have nothing to worry about.” He glances between Stiles and Derek, like he’s searching for confirmation. “And I wanted to say… I love you, Allison. I know it’s not the most, uh, romantic time. And I know we haven’t been dating _that_ long, but-”

 

“You do?” she asks, sounding truly shocked. “You’re not just saying that because-”

 

“No. No, uh… Trust me, I wouldn’t have even called you if I didn’t. I love you, Allison, and we have a lot to talk about, but… I do. I love you.” After a few seconds, he says, “Do you, um…”

 

“ _Yes_ ,” Allison laughs, and Derek can imagine her smiling, dimples on display. “Yes, yes, of course I do. I love you, Scott McCall.”

 

Scott is still staring down at the bed, and the dopiest smile takes over his face as he plays with a loose thread in his sheet.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“ _Yes_ ,” she says again. “Fuck, Scott, thank you so much for understanding. You’re such a good guy, and I’m going to make this up to you however I can. I just want you to feel safe again.”

 

 _We’re gonna go_ , Stiles mouths to Scott. He locks eyes with Derek and nods at the door.

 

Once they’re in the hall, he says, “Someone’s head over heels.”

 

Derek nods, sticking his hands in his pocket.

 

“You really think he’s safe?” Stiles asks, more quietly. “All jokes aside?”

 

“I never thought I’d say this about an Argent,” Derek sighs. “But honestly? With Allison, I think he is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand, with that, we end our Allison arc. We'll see more of her, but I think you can trust Derek's feelings at the end there ;) Next time we'll see how lunch goes. As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Broke computer. Lost a tiny bit of writing. Had to wait forever for a new laptop. Boyfriend started college. I started college. Dog passed away. Midterms. Probably other stuff because this year is shit. Long wait time between updates. You know the drill by now. Thank you to everyone who checked in on me, and sorry for the wait, guys. Thank you for sticking around <3

“So, what have you boys been up to lately?” John asks, ladling some rice onto his plate. He reaches for another scoop, but Stiles glares at him till he sets the spoon down. “As much as I love eating unhealthy food without being reminded of my mortality, I do miss seeing my son.”

 

“Sorry, sorry,” Stiles says sheepishly, dishing his dad another half scoop before taking some for himself. “I’ve just been really busy lately. Derek, writing, everything is kind of crazy.”

 

“Derek, huh? Well how have you been, kid? What’s keeping you two so busy holed up in that house?”

 

Derek knows John doesn’t mean any harm, but he can’t help the instinctual pang of worry that comes with anything that sounds even mildly accusatory. The man just misses his son, and Derek _is_ taking up all his time. But. Still.

 

“Uh.” He clears his throat. “We watch a lot of TV. We cook together. Clean. See Lydia and Scott. I read sometimes, Stiles writes _all_ the time.”

 

“How’s that new book coming along, Stiles?” Melissa asks. “John tells me it’s about werewolves.”

 

She smiles warmly at Derek.

 

“It’s going super well, actually,” Stiles says. “The manuscript is almost done.”

 

John raises an eyebrow.

 

“Already?”

 

“I know, right? But it is.” A proud little grin takes over Stiles’ face. “That’s probably the fastest I’ve ever written something, but I honestly think it’s one of my best works. Granted, it’s shorter than other books of mine, but I think that’s a good thing. It’s such a taboo subject that I think it’ll be easier to grab attention with something that’s not, like,  _five hundred_ pages. Plus, I’m really anxious to get it out there. It should be a relatively quick process, considering Braeden, my publisher, actually _wants_ this book written. It’s _insane_ luck as a—so far—relatively unsuccessful writer for the publisher to want me to be eager for the book instead of me being eager to find a publisher. Once I wrap it up I’m going to set up a meeting with her, and send it to an editor.”

 

“That’s great, Stiles. I’m proud of you. You know I’ll be the first one to buy a copy.”

 

“Thanks, Dad. I think this really could be my big break. Or it could flop, if people are too close-minded to read about werewolves. But, y’know. Optimism.”

 

“I think it’ll do great,” Melissa assures him. “You’ve got another guaranteed sale right here.”

 

“Even if it’s not a huge bestseller,” Derek says, speaking up. “Even if it changes just one person’s mind about werewolves. I think that’ll make it worth it.”

 

Stiles gives his foot an affectionate nudge under the table.

 

“You’re right, Der. I hope it does something for someone.”

 

Derek can’t help but wonder if he’ll still be around by the time Stiles’ book comes out. It’s hard not to imagine it becoming a hit, and that being a hindrance to his plan. It wouldn’t reflect very well on Stiles, the author of a book about a runaway slave, if his own werewolf runs away right after it comes out.

 

Goddammit.

 

* * *

 

“So, Scott, how’s that girlfriend of yours?” John asks. “Since we’re calling each other out, Mel is dying to meet her.”

 

“Oh, she’s good,” Scott says. “Things are going really well.” An overstatement, if you ask Derek. “You really want to meet her, Mom?”

 

“Gee, my son’s first serious girlfriend in who-knows-how-long?” Melissa says, pretending to consider it. “Might be something I’m interested in.”

 

“Fair,” he says, ducking his head.

 

There’s a silly little smile on his face that his mother doesn’t miss out on.

 

“Someone looks smitten,” she says, finishing off her cornbread. “Why don’t you bring her by next time you come over?”

 

“Okay,” Scott agrees. “Yeah, I will.”

 

“Great!” Melissa says. “Now, I think everyone is done here, right? Derek, would you mind helping me in the kitchen for a second?” 

 

Scott and Stiles shoot her matching surprised looks.

 

“I can do it, Mel,” John offers. “Let the boys get going soon.”

 

Something about Melissa’s voice when she asked makes Derek say, “No, it’s okay. I can help.”

 

“Well, I won’t insist,” John laughs. “I’m stuffed—with _vegetables,_ unfortunately. I’m gonna go lay on the couch for a while.”

 

“Meet us in the living room in a couple minutes, man,” Scott says, as Derek gets up from the table. “Then we can all go home.”

 

“Sure,” Derek says, as Scott ushers a slightly worried-looking Stiles up from his chair.

 

As they head out the door, he hears Scott mutter, “Chill, Stiles. You know my mom. She probably just wants to tell him how welcome he is in our home or whatever.”

 

The serious look on Melissa’s face as Derek follows her into the kitchen tells him otherwise.

 

* * *

 

“I just thought you could help me clean up for a few minutes while we get to know each other,” Melissa tells him, once the kitchen door swings shut behind them. “I’ve heard so much about you, but I still feel like I don’t know you that well.”

 

“Oh. Uh… sure.”

 

“Great,” Melissa says. She walks over to the sink and starts scrubbing one of the pots. “You can dry, if you don’t mind.”

 

“Of course,” Derek says, coming to stand next to her and taking the dishrag she points at.

 

Melissa washes exactly one dish before she says, “So you know about my son.”

 

Derek freezes, plate and dishcloth gripped tightly in his hands.

 

So that’s what this is.

 

“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “He told you?”

 

“As soon as I heard we were casually inviting a werewolf over for lunch, I knew you must have found out somehow.”

 

Slowly, Derek goes back to wiping the dish.

 

“I smelled him when he dropped by Stiles’ house one day. Then he told me about it.”

 

“Did he tell you that you’re the only person in the whole world outside of this family who knows?”

 

Derek nods.

 

For the first time, he notices how incredibly stressed Melissa smells.

 

He’s certainly not going to be the one to tell her that Stiles and her son’s new hunter girlfriend know, too.

 

“I’m not going to tell anyone,” he says. “That would be horrible.”

 

“I figured,” Melissa says, handing him a glass. “But it’s nice to get confirmation.”

 

“You don't need to worry. I would never do that to anyone, let alone Stiles’ best friend.”

 

“You and Stiles have gotten pretty close, haven’t you?” she asks. “You seem very comfortable around him.”

 

“We have,” Derek agrees. “He’s a really good guy.”

 

“He is,” Melissa says, smiling down at the fork she’s holding. “I’m glad he’s treating you right.”

 

Derek can’t help a small smile, either.

 

“So am I.”

 

* * *

 

“ _Wow_ am I glad to be home,” Stiles announces, flopping face-first onto the couch. “What a crazy two days.”

 

“I know,” Derek sighs, settling down in the chair. “Imagine how Scott feels.”

 

“I still can’t believe he’s a werewolf,” Stiles says, shaking his head. “I’m like, flashing back over my entire life and thinking of every single time I’ve almost accidentally outed him or said something insensitive, and… wow. And when I bought you, God. No wonder he was so freaked out.”

 

“He was terrified when I opened the door,” Derek admits. “I thought he was going to pass out or something.”

 

Stiles grimaces, just the side of his face visible from where it’s shoved in the cushions.

 

“You know, it was really nice of you to keep his secret, even from me. You didn’t have to do that.”

 

“Would’ve made me a pretty shitty person if I went around telling people.”

 

“Still,” Stiles says, lifting his head to look at him. “You’re a really good guy, Der. The world has been shitty to you, but you’re not shitty back. You don’t let the anger take over.”

 

“I wouldn’t say that,” Derek says. “Even my papers say I have anger issues.”

 

“I mean-” Stiles says, sitting up. “Those people deserved your anger. And much, much worse. But you’re not angry at _everyone_. It would be totally justified if you were, but you’re a really good person even with everything you’ve been through. You’re not super hateful or something. And I mean, I would _definitely_ get it if you were, but… I dunno. I don’t know what I’m saying. I guess I’m just glad the bad people in your life didn’t make you think there were _only_ bad people.”

 

“I… kind of _am_ like that,” Derek says, frowning a little. “I like you, but most humans… Even you, I hated at first. And for a lot of years, I hated _all_ humans. I hated everyone, even werewolves, for a while.” He thinks of Isaac, and how he managed to singlehandedly pull Derek out of that horrible mindset. “I’ve had friends over the years who reminded me there were still good people out there. That werewolves are mostly good, and that we’re all we have. But you, uh…” He drags a hand over his stubble. “You’re really the one who reminded me that not all humans are bad people. I _was_ hateful like that. A big part of me still is. I hate the Argents, I hate my past owners, I hate every evil slave owner out there, but… You reminded me there are good people, too.”

 

A soft smile takes over Stiles’ face, but he shakes his head.

 

“I can’t take credit for that, Derek. I might have reminded you there are good people out there, but you already knew. There were all the friends you had before… everything. There are humans like Ken. Like Lydia and Jackson and Sc—well, I thought like Scott—and Dad and Melissa. And anyway, I’m not glad that you’re at least a little less angry at the world now for anyone’s sake but yours. You _should_ hate everyone who’s wronged you, and you could even hate people like me by extension, and it would be justified. But I’m glad you’re allowing yourself to be a little happier for your own sake. Humans don’t deserve your love or friendship or forgiveness, but I don’t want _you_ to be miserable all the time, so… I guess what I’m saying is I’m glad that you’re starting to be happy again.”

 

“Without you, I wouldn’t know any of those people,” Derek says. “I would be living with some other owner, as miserable as always.”

 

Stiles waves a hand at him.

 

“You’re never going to get me to take credit for basic human decency, dude. But I _am_ glad that you’re happier living here. You deserve to be happy, and as long as I’m alive you have a place here.”

 

Derek’s stomach twists. Stiles is going to be so disappointed when he leaves. He’ll probably wonder where he went wrong, what he did to make Derek hate him.

 

“Thank you,” is all he can bring himself to say.

 

Stiles shrugs.

 

“You made my life better too. Thank _you_.”

 

Derek raises an eyebrow.

 

“I made your life ten times more stressful.”

 

“That’s not true, dude.”

 

“Really? Because I remember making you _pretty_ stressed for a while there, and even terrified.”

 

“Yeah, well I made you stressed and terrified too, and _you’re_ pretty happy now.”

 

“Still,” Derek says. “I worsened your financial problems. I take up a lot of your time. Life is just… harder, with me around.”

 

“False,” Stiles says, pointing a finger at him. “You inspired me to write a book that might just be my big break, and I have Jackson and Lydia supporting me in the meantime. And it was _my_ choice to buy you; any financial consequences of that are my own fault. Besides. I would rather be poor and know you’re safe than… Well, still be poor, and have you be miserable somewhere. And dude, take up my time? I hope you’re joking.”

 

“Stiles, you can’t say I _don’t_ take up a ton of your free time.”

 

“Uh, you cook like half my meals, so that’s saving me time right there. You do a little shopping. You help clean up. Having friends isn’t about taking up time. Scott’s taken up plenty of my time over the years, too, but that’s a _good_ thing. You don’t waste my time, you give me something to look forward to when I wake up in the morning. To be honest, I was… pretty lonely, before you got here. I had Scott, but school and work keep him _so busy_ , and I have Jackson and Lydia, but they’re married and I can only intrude on their lives so often. But now I have a friend that I can hang out with all day long, and it’s like being back in college, but only the good parts. So… don’t ever feel like you’re wasting my time. I love having you here.”

 

Derek’s mouth feels dry. _How_ is he supposed to leave Stiles behind? Why can’t the universe make his life easy for once? Because Derek cares about Stiles too, likes living with him, and leaving is going to permanently cut those ties. It’s necessary, but… it sucks. It really, really sucks.

 

“Well you’re not wasting my time, either,” he says. “With all my other owners, my life was just wasting away. But here it’s almost like having my own life again. So… thank you.”

 

Stiles grins, nudging Derek’s foot with his.

 

“Thank you, too. I think we make a pretty good pair.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a _super_ exciting chapter, but I'm just relieved to finally have it out. Let me know what you thought  <3 I've already started the next one, so hopefully the next update will be much, much quicker.


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa, hello, I just woke up from a long, unintentional nap and I’m still half-dead. Glad I got up in time for this! Also, warning in the end notes. 
> 
> I know some people like to picture young!Derek as young Tyler, but this won’t make much sense unless you picture him as Ian. Just putting that out there ;)

 

"Stiles,” Derek calls, heading upstairs. “What are you doing?”

 

It’s already one in the afternoon and Stiles hasn’t so much as left his room all morning. He’s not writing, because his laptop is on the coffee table, and Derek’s not really sure what else he would be doing that would keep him locked up there so long. He knocks when he reaches the bedroom door.

 

“Wha—?” Stiles mumbles.

 

Derek really only picks up on it because of his enhanced hearing.

 

“What are you doing in there?”

 

“Restin’.”

 

“Can I come in?” Derek asks, frowning. “You sound weird.”

 

Stiles lets out a long moan that sounds somewhat affirmative. That’s good enough for Derek, and he turns the knob, entering Stiles’ room for the first time in months. It’s as messy as it was before, possibly even more so. Actually, definitely more, because there are tissues littered all around a seemingly pointless wastebasket, as well as in the bed. When Stiles sits up, there’s even a tissue stuck to his shirt. Derek wrinkles his nose, and Stiles looks down and plucks it off, tossing it to the ground with the rest.

 

“Hi,” he says, flopping back down in bed and throwing an arm over his eyes.

 

“You’re sick,” Derek says, frowning as he steps closer to the bed. “Why didn’t you say something?”

 

“Not really in the say something mood. I feel like there’s liquid cement in my sinuses.”

 

“You sound like it, too.”

 

“Gee, thank you for your kind, encouraging words,” Stiles huffs, squirming further under his covers. “I also keep going back and forth between freezing and boiling, and my throat hurts, and it’s disgusting.”

 

“What should we do?”

 

“I don’t know about you, but I’m going to lay here and wait for the sweet mercy of death.”

 

“Stiles, it sounds like you have a cold. Maybe a fever.”

 

“And so, a slow death it will be.”

 

Derek rolls his eyes, but he can’t help feeling a little concerned. He’s never had to personally deal with a sick human before. When owners got sick, they didn’t exactly want Derek around. He’s not a very nurturing presence.

 

“Do you have a thermometer somewhere?”

 

“Dunno. Probably. Why are you making me talk?”

 

“I’m trying to help speed up death’s loving embrace,” Derek says flatly. “Wait here while I look for one.”

 

He’s about to head for the bathroom in the hall when Stiles says, “Wait, no. The en suite. It wouldn’t be in the hallway one.”

 

Stiles’ bathroom is the only part of the house Derek has never been in, but it’s not very different from anywhere else. The shower is a little bigger than the one Derek uses, and so is the vanity. Derek rummages around inside it, and comes across all kinds of things. The bottom drawer has a pack of toilet scrubbing pads and three rolls of toilet paper. The next has shaving cream, razors, toothpaste, and a few bars of soap. The top drawer has a package of toothbrushes, a pair of bent glasses that Stiles has never given any indication that he needs, a few stray coins, Chapstick, and finally, the thermometer all the way in the back.

 

“Here,” he says, lightly tossing it to Stiles as he heads back into the room.

 

Stiles doesn’t even attempt to catch it, and it smacks him right in the forehead. He just groans again.

 

“Shit, are you okay?” Derek asks, rushing over and taking the thermometer back.

 

“You hit me,” Stiles grumbles.

 

“I thought you would catch it!”

 

Stiles huffs.

 

“Jerk. Just take my temperature.”

 

Derek rolls his eyes.

 

“You’re fine. Open your mouth.”

 

Stiles obliges, making an obnoxious _ahhhhhhh_ sound while Derek sticks the thermometer under his tongue.

 

“Wow,” Derek says, slipping it from Stiles’ mouth when it finally beeps.

 

“What? Don’t tell me it’s like 104 and I’m dying, please.”

 

“Just 98.9,” Derek says, showing him. “But I think that’s the longest you’ve ever gone without talking.”

 

“Ha. Ha. Ha,” Stiles mutters. “I’ve never heard that one before.”

 

“I’ve always prided myself on my creativity.”

 

“Yeah, well how about you go be creative in the kitchen.”

 

“What do you want?”

 

“Whatever we have. I’m starving.”

 

* * *

 

Derek takes the time to make eggs and toast, because that’s Stiles’ favorite. Plus, the smile on his face when Derek enters the room is really nice.

 

“You wanna keep me company?” he asks, propping himself up in bed so he can eat.

 

“Where should I sit?”

 

“Windowsill?” Stiles suggests. “I know you can’t catch a cold, but you probably don’t wanna sit amongst all my germs anyway.”

 

Derek smirks and goes to sit by the window, opposite Stiles’ door. From here, he can see a fist-sized chunk missing from the doorframe, and he can’t help staring at it as he relives the memory. It’s from the time he thought Stiles was going to rape him. And he’d punched the wall instead of decking Stiles in the face. And the hole is still there.

 

Which. Yeah. Obviously. But seeing it again is…

 

Well, it’s his worst memory with Stiles, and the physical reminder isn’t his favorite thing. 

 

“What’re you lookin’ at?” Stiles asks after a moment, his eyes trailing after Derek’s. “Oh.”

 

“Sorry,” Derek says, quickly looking away. “I… forgot about that. The hole, I mean, not the… That.”

 

Hot, vicious shame fills him, and he can’t stop the memory from playing over and over in his mind.

 

_“What are you doing on the floor?”_

_“Would you prefer me on the bed, Stiles?”_

_“Um… you can sit wherever you want, I guess?”_

 

God, Stiles was so innocent. Never could’ve guessed what Derek was thinking.

 

_“You’re not- you- you’re talking about sex? Holy shit, you are, aren’t you?”_

_“Yes, Stiles.”_

_“No. No, no, what the fuck, no- Derek, what the_ fuck _\- what-”_

 

“I try to just ignore it,” Stiles says, setting his fork down. “But it’s a good reminder of how naïve I was. How much I still need to learn.”

 

 _“I don’t-” Stiles stammers. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I don’t, I swear, please, I’m sorry, I’m_ so _sorry, I-”_

 

“No,” Derek says, standing abruptly. “I’ll fix it.”

 

“Dude, no,” Stiles says. “It’s fine. It’s not your fault.”

 

“It’s not my fault that I punched a hole in your wall?”

 

“It’s not your fault I scared you.”

 

Embarrassment washes over Derek again, and Stiles must be able to tell.

 

“I mean- I didn’t mean it like that. _Anyone_ would’ve been scared. And I never could’ve done what you did, just stoically dealt with it for that long.”

 

“You get used to it,” Derek mutters.

 

Stiles grimaces.

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I know you did.” Derek feels guilty for making him have this conversation when he’s sick. For making him have it at all. Derek _should_ be able to just deal with it, he shouldn’t be dredging up shit that wasn’t even really Stiles’ fault. He just wanted to fix the wall. “But you shouldn’t have had to, Der. And I know nothing I say will get rid of those memories, and nothing I say will make you forget the feeling of thinking _I_ was going to- do _that_ , but. I can make sure it’ll never happen again. I will _never_ let that happen again.”

 

“I know you won’t,” Derek sighs. “Are you sure you don’t want me to fix it?”

 

“It’s okay,” Stiles insists, wiping at his nose. “I don’t even know how to fix a doorframe, and I assume you don’t either. ‘sides. I’m sick. I don’t need any extra noise or weird smells in here or anything. Just sit and talk to me.”

 

“Okay,” Derek says hesitantly. He still can’t help cutting glances at the door, but he's so glad he's with someone like Stiles now. “What do you want to talk about?”

 

“ _Eugh_ , I don’t even really want to talk. My nose is so fucking _stuffed_. You talk to me. Tell me a story.”

 

Derek scoffs.

 

“How old are you?”

 

“A writer is never too old to hear a story.”

 

“Mm, how sage.”

 

“I’m wise as fuck,” Stiles says, taking a bite of his toast. “Now tell me a story.”

 

“You’re very demanding today.”

 

“Hey, you could’ve just left me up here to die. But you made the mistake of checking on me, and now you have to suffer.”

 

Derek rolls his eyes.

 

“You really are a child. What do you want to hear about? I don’t know many stories.”

 

“I dunno. _Anything_.”

 

“Uh…” Derek blows out a breath. He doesn’t exactly have a wealth of happy stories. “When I was twelve, my sister dyed my hair blue.”

 

Stiles laughs, and then groans, touching his throat with tender fingers.

 

“You let her dye your hair _blue_?”

 

“Let her?” Derek raises an eyebrow. “I wanted to _kill_ her.”

 

“I’m trying to imagine you with blue hair and I can’t even do it.”

 

“God, I don’t _want_ to imagine my current self like that. I didn’t exactly look like this eighteen years ago.”

 

“What did you look like?”

 

“When I didn’t look like Cookie Monster?”

 

Stiles laughs again, more quietly this time, and Derek is glad to see him smiling. He really didn’t mean to bring back bad memories for either of them.

 

“I bet you heard that joke a lot.”

 

“You don’t even want to know,” Derek says, shaking his head. Peter called him that for _months_. “And if you can’t picture me with blue hair, you definitely can’t picture me at age twelve. I look like a completely different person now.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Well, I’m _thirty_ , for starters. But I don’t know. There are some people who you can look at pictures of them as children and say, _oh, I see it_. Not me.”

 

“Puberty did wonders, huh?”

 

“Not really. I looked a little dorkier at twelve, but that’s because it was middle school. I looked better as I got older, but generally the same. I had kind of a baby face until I was eighteen or nineteen.”

 

He looked very different when he started dating Kate than he does now, for instance. It’s weird to be able to talk about his looks with Stiles at all. His looks haven’t done him any favors in a long time, only made people like Kate and Jennifer want him. But back in high school… It was nice to be popular. It was nice to have Paige, and so many other girls, want him. It’s strange how quickly things can change. It’s less strange how having your childhood ripped away can change your outlook on life.

 

“A dorky babyface, or a cute one?” Stiles teases, finishing off his eggs.

 

“No comment,” Derek says dryly.

 

“Aw, c’mon. You saw me with my lame buzzcut in high school!” His voice is pretty hoarse, but Derek knows telling him to be quiet won’t do any good. “I won’t judge.”

 

“A ‘cute’ one, I _guess_ ,” Derek huffs. “I don’t know. I was popular in high school, but that’s a million years ago now.”

 

“Oh my God, were you really?” Stiles asks, eyes lighting up. “I bet you wouldn’t have even talked to me in high school! I-” He interrupts himself to have a mini coughing fit. “I bet you would’ve been friends with _Jackson_. Oh, my God, were you a huge jock or something?”

 

“I _guess_ ,” Derek says again, even though it’s true. “I was on a few teams at my school. But so were you.”

 

“Yeah, but I _sucked_ at lacrosse. I bet you were like team captain or something, with your cute little face and your muscles.”

 

“Oh my God.”

 

“You were, weren’t you?”

 

“Shut up. You’re sick.”

 

“You _were_!” Stiles crows, or at least attempts to. He ends up having to harshly clear his throat. “Oh my God, I love it.”

 

“Shut _up_ ,” Derek says again. “You’re supposed to be resting, and I’m supposed to be telling a story.”

 

“But now I can’t stop picturing you with a cute little teenage face in your basketball uniform, with blue hair.”

 

“I didn’t _keep_ the hair,” Derek says, rolling his eyes. “Laura put blue hair dye in my shampoo and I dyed it back two days later.”

 

“Doesn’t matter,” Stiles says firmly, setting his empty plate on the nightstand and snuggling back in under his covers. “Now I’m gonna picture you with blue hair at least once a day.”

 

Derek gives a longsuffering sigh.

 

“Anyway, I got her back by telling the guy she liked that she had lice when he came over.”

 

“Oh my God, that’s so mean. What did he do?”

 

“He left. Never came back.”

 

Stiles laughs silently, body shaking, but then he shakes his head reproachfully.

 

“Man, you were a _dick_.”

 

“I was twelve, Stiles. And she turned my hair _blue_.”

 

He was furious at the time, but it’s kind of a good memory now. He can even recall with fondness how relentlessly Peter made fun of him.

 

“Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

 

“Yes, because I’m so mean to you, feeding you and taking your temperature and letting you make fun of me while you’re sick.”

 

“Yes. Very inconsiderate. Now tell me another story.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lemme know what you thought! <3
> 
> Warning for a brief mention of rape. It’s a quick flashback of dialogue from the chapter where Derek thought Stiles was going to rape him—the chapter does not center around that.


	41. Chapter 41

“Hey, Ken,” Derek calls, entering the shop.

 

“Derek!” Ken says, smiling broadly as he steps out from the back room. “I’m so glad you’re here. Sit, sit.”

 

He waves at Derek’s usual stool near the register and Derek takes a seat.

 

“Someone’s in a good mood. What’s up?”

 

“Wait there,” Ken says, and he rushes over to the front door, flipping the sign to closed before he heads into the back again. Derek is vaguely sure it's a storage room that leads up to Ken's apartment. It’s a few long minutes till he comes back out, but Derek doesn’t invade his privacy by listening to what he’s doing. When he finally emerges again, he says, “Derek, I’d like you to meet my daughter. Officially, this time.”

 

He steps to the side, revealing Kira standing in the doorway. She looks older than the girl Derek once knew, more adult, but she still seems timid. She offers Derek a nod before ducking her head.

 

Regardless, Derek is ecstatic.

 

“Kira,” he says, quickly standing and walking over. “It’s great to see you again. I don’t know if you remember me, but-”

 

“I do,” Kira says, looking up at him again. Her voice is quiet; she seems shy. “Derek Hale. You caused Matt a lot of trouble, you know. You were probably the most well-known slave in that house.” For the first time, she musters a smile. “You and Boyd. He complained for months when Boyd broke his arm.”

 

Derek cringes.

 

“I hope he didn’t take it out too hard on the rest of you. Boyd never would have wanted that, he was just trying to protect Erica.”

 

“I know. I remember,” she says. “I liked Boyd. He was quiet, gentle. He didn’t do anything Matt didn’t deserve.” She cuts an anxious glance at her father before she adds, “And Matt didn’t do anything too bad to the rest of us. Maybe it made him a little more irritable for a while, but it also made him keep to his room a lot while he healed, so that was nice. Besides, it made him a lot more reluctant to… repeat the Erica situation. He didn’t for a long time.”

 

That’s a relief, Derek supposes.

 

“That’s good to hear.” Hoping to switch to a happier topic, since he knows exactly how much she must hate thinking about it, he turns to Ken. “How did you find her so fast?”

 

“All thanks to you,” Ken says. His eyes look almost dreamy, like he still can’t believe this is real. “I called that Matt fellow and set up a meeting with him. I didn’t know how to broach the topic of Kira without revealing who I was, so I figured I’d go to his house under the pretense of discussing a photography session and see if I could find her. Luckily, I did. Or she found me, at least.”

 

“I smelled him,” Kira puts in. “It was kind of surreal. I barely recognized his scent, but there was something so familiar coming from Matt’s studio. I had to find out what is was, so I took over someone’s shift to bring them lunch.”

 

“He shocked her,” Ken says, expression darkening, “because she looked so surprised to see me. He said she was being rude to his guests. Made her apologize to me. It took a lot of willpower not to ask him to step outside. I’m glad you warned me to keep my reactions in check around him, Derek.”

 

Derek blows out a breath, nods.

 

“Well, I knew he wasn’t the best owner. I’m surprised he kept you all this time, Kira. What happened then?”

 

“Annoyed as I made Matt, Dad had such a surprised look on his face when he realized it was me, too,” Kira says, smiling fondly. “I don’t think either of us quite believed it. Especially not me. I kind of resigned myself a long time ago to never seeing him again, so to have him show up in Matt’s house out of nowhere...”

 

“Must’ve been crazy,” Derek agrees.

 

“More than crazy. Just… _amazing_.”

 

While she seemed reluctant to talk to Derek at first, now she seems all too eager. She probably doesn’t have many people she can tell this story to, so it’s not exactly surprising. Derek certainly doesn’t mind—maybe he and Cora will have a tale like this one day.

 

“What happened then?”

 

“Then it was the hard part,” Ken sighs. “She was going to leave once she set the tray down, so I had to say something. I complimented Matt on how pretty she was, and he just seemed annoyed, said something about wishing she would behave better. I said maybe I could take her off his hands if he was tired of her. When he realized he could get some money for her, he started going on about how she’s _usually_ so well behaved instead. How I was right, she _is_ beautiful, that he’s had her for a long time and she’s always quiet and polite, etcetera.”

 

He looks more and more angry as he talks, so Derek tries to steer him away from whatever idiocy Matt may have been spewing.

 

“I’m surprised he was so willing to sell you, since he didn’t in all that time,” he tells Kira.

 

She shrugs.

 

“He barely noticed me enough to sell me. I didn’t talk back and I did good work, but he didn’t seem to have any particular attachment to me. He could be as… creepy to me as he was to any of the other slaves,” she says, looking worriedly at her father again, “but he wasn’t especially interested in me. There was just no reason to sell me in all that time, I guess, until someone showed interest.”

 

“I was worried you’d be long gone by the time I told Ken about you,” Derek confesses. “You were still pretty new when I got sold, so I had no idea if he kept you. It’s so great that he did. At least, for your family’s sake.”

 

“It wasn’t so bad there,” Kira says, but her heart speeds up a little. “There are worse places.”

 

Derek can’t help but wonder if she spent her childhood in some of those worse places.

 

“Well, you’re safe now,” Ken says warmly. His hand twitches in the direction of hers, like he wants to take it in his own but thinks better of it. Derek thinks that Kira probably doesn’t like to be touched, and it makes him frown. He knows what that’s like. “You never have to worry about that again.”

 

She does, of course. When Ken dies, even if it’s in forty years, she’ll have to worry. He could step outside and get struck by lightning, could get killed in car crash like her mother, could be taken without a moment’s notice and Kira would be alone again. That’s what Derek worries about with Stiles. Maybe Jackson and Lydia would take him in, or Scott, but it’s just one more reason he can’t simply stay and live happily ever after.

 

“I know,” Kira says softly. “I’m glad.” After a moment, she continues, “It went on like that with Dad for a while. They negotiated and all, with me standing right there. Can’t tell you how nervous I was. But uh, they worked something out, and now… Well, I’m here. So, um, thank you, Derek. You kind of saved my life.”

 

“Don’t thank me,” Derek says, shaking his head. “It was all your dad. He’s the one who showed me the pictures of you and did all the work. I just happened to recognize your face.”

 

“Well, I’ll thank you,” Ken says. He reaches for Derek’s hand, shaking it as he pulls him in for a brief hug. Derek finds himself not minding the contact at all. “Kira means the whole world to me.”

 

Kira blushes, looking away.

 

It’ll take some time for her to get used to being someone’s world, Derek thinks, amused.

 

“I’m really, really glad this worked out. I have to say, it’s kind of a miracle.”

 

“One that you helped us achieve,” Ken says. “Do you think you could join us for dinner tonight? We’d love to have you.”

 

“Uh… I’d have to let Stiles know. He’s probably expecting me home by now.”

 

“I have a phone if you’d like to call,” Ken says, looking at him hopefully as he pulls out his cell. “But you don’t have to if you’d rather go home. You’ve done more than enough.”

 

“No, no, it sounds good,” Derek says, taking it from him. A human besides one of Stiles’ friends inviting him to dinner is a situation he never thought he’d be in. Then again, the human is Ken, and Ken is _Ken_. “One sec.”

 

He dials Stiles’ number, waiting a few times while it rings. Stiles doesn’t pick up the first time, probably because it’s an unknown number, so Derek tries again.

 

“Hello?” he answers on the fourth ring.

 

“Hey, it’s Derek.”

 

“Shit, are you okay? Whose phone are you calling from?”

 

“Oh, no- I’m fine. It’s Ken’s. He invited me to dinner tonight. Is that okay?”

 

“Oh. Wow. That’s so cute.” Stiles gives a little laugh. “Yeah, of course. Stay out as long as you want. I’m just writing anyway, you’d be bored at home.”

 

“Thanks. I’ll see you tonight, alright?”

 

“Sure thing, Der. I know it’ll be fine, but call me if anything goes wrong, okay? I’ll come pick you up.”

 

Derek smiles to himself.

 

The real reason he feels comfortable having dinner with a human in because of _Stiles_.

 

“I’m sure it’ll be fine, but thanks. See you later, good luck writing.”

 

“Of course, dude. See you.”

 

Derek hands the phone back to Ken, feeling that Stiles saved him every bit as much as Ken saved Kira.

 

* * *

 

“Would it be weird if I left you two here while I went to pick up the pizza?” Ken asks, looking uncertain. “They always take such a long time to deliver, especially on a weekend. It’d be much faster if I just ran to get it.”

 

“It’s fine, Dad,” Kira says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

 

“Derek?”

 

“Go ahead,” Derek reassures him. He’s generally not a huge fan of new people, but he’s gotten pretty good at talking to werewolves over the years. “We’ll be fine here.”

 

“Okay,” Ken says, smiling at them. “Call me if you need anything.”

 

He heads out of the room, leaving Derek and Kira sitting on opposite couches.

 

“So…” Derek says after a few moments. “I wish I didn’t have to ask, but you really are happy here, right? Ken has always been very good to me.”

 

“God, yes,” Kira says, eyes wide. “I don’t know what I would have done if I had to stay with Matt for the rest of my life. It was a blessing that you helped him find me. Thank you, Derek.”

 

She gives him a shy smile.

 

“Seriously, don’t listen to him. All I did was recognize your picture and tell him where I saw you last. He’s the one who was talking about you so fondly and showing me photos. He had to find you and buy you. It was all him. He missed you like crazy.”

 

“I know he did,” she says, looking suddenly sad. “I missed him too.”

 

“But you’re together now,” Derek offers, wishing he was better at comforting people. “And I know he’s probably happier than you can even tell.”

 

“I think he’s trying to suppress it a little,” she admits. “You saw how he keeps restraining himself from touching me.”

 

“You don’t like to be touched?”

 

“Does any slave really like it?”

 

Good point.

 

“I didn’t used to, but it’s getting better.”

 

“I was a little surprised to see him hug _you_ ,” she says, finally looking amused.

 

“He’s never done that before,” Derek laughs. “But it was fine. Human contact is nice, when the humans are nice. I don’t mind if Stiles—Stiles is my owner, if you couldn’t tell earlier, but it’s complicated—touches me, either. As long as it doesn’t catch me off guard, or I’m not already upset about something. You’ll get there.”

 

“I hope so,” she sighs. “He doesn’t show it, but I think he’s probably a little hurt.”

 

“Maybe he is, but it’s nice that he knows your boundaries and is respecting them anyway. He hasn’t seen you in twenty years, of course he wants to be affectionate, but he can wait. And he will. He’s a good guy.”

 

“He is,” she says, a small smile crossing her face. “I love him.”

 

“I know. And Ken knows, too, and for now I think that’s enough.”

 

* * *

 

“I don’t know how you eat this stuff,” Ken says, picking every last bit of pineapple off his pizza. “When you were a kid I thought it was one of those weird phases. This is just wrong.”

 

“You could’ve just gotten it on half,” Kira says, before stealing a few pieces of pineapple from his plate and putting them on her own pizza. Derek thinks that’s probably a good sign, and it’s kind of cute. “It tastes good, though.”

 

“It most certainly does not taste good,” Ken says, depositing the rest of his scraps onto her plate. “But this is mostly for you two, and so you can have leftovers tomorrow. I only need a slice or two.”

 

“I think it tastes fine,” Derek says, taking a big bite.

 

He’s always eaten whatever food he could get his hands on, even before he was a slave.

 

“Maybe it’s a werewolf thing. Your taste buds must be getting something here that mine just aren’t.”

 

“Maybe I can cook tomorrow night,” Kira suggests. “Find something you like.”

 

“I was only joking, Kira,” Ken says gently. “I’m happy to have whatever you like. You deserve some good meals, and you know I don’t need you to cook.”

 

“Okay,” she says, biting her lip.

 

Ken shoots Derek a lost look, and he swoops in.

 

He remembers what it was like when Stiles first got him—even the smallest, most innocent comments can be taken the wrong way, and a joke can turn sour fast.

 

“Cooking can actually be a lot of fun, when you get to eat it,” he tells Kira. “I don’t know if you were on kitchen duty often, but cooking is pretty relaxing when there’s no pressure.”

 

“I’ve never been a very good cook, but I can make a few things. I usually just did chores like cleaning, or sometimes gardening. You know Matt got a _garden_ when you left?”

 

Derek laughs, his mind conjuring up a ridiculous image of Matt with a broken arm and a watering can.

 

“Matt doesn’t exactly seem like the kind of person who would care about having a garden.”

 

“I know, right? But I kind of liked taking care of it. It was relaxing, and the flowers were pretty.”

 

“Maybe we could have a garden, if you wanted one,” Ken offers. “I sell flowers in the shop, but I never actually plant any.”

 

“Really? Where would we even have space for that? It’s not like we have a yard here.”

 

“The roof, maybe? I think that’s something people do.”

 

“That would be nice,” Kira says, a soft smile taking over her face. “Thanks, Dad.”

 

Ken beams.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, how was dinner?” Stiles asks, lowering the lid of his laptop. “Good?”

 

“Good,” Derek says, locking the door behind him. “How was home?”

 

“Good! Like, shockingly good. Getting _so_ close to finishing this book.”

 

“That’s amazing, Stiles,” he says, going to sit in the arm chair. “I don’t know how you write so fast.”

 

“I mean, this _is_ a shorter book than usual, but me neither. I’m just really into it because it’s important. And it’s just… interesting, you know?”

 

“No, because you won’t let me read it.”

 

“Blah,” Stiles says, waving a hand at him. “When it’s done. Which will be _soon_. But hey, enough of that, tell me about dinner. How come he invited you over?”

 

“Because I’m charming.”

 

Stiles barks a laugh.

 

“God, I’m rubbing off on you, aren’t I?”

 

“I think you are,” Derek admits, but he doesn’t think it’s a bad thing. “But really, he just invited me over to meet his daughter.”

 

“Oh, I didn’t even know he had one. That’s adorable, dude.”

 

He looks pleased to see Derek interacting with humans on his own, and Derek isn’t sure Ken would want him talking much about Kira, so he doesn’t mention that she’s a slave.

 

“It was nice,” he says, smiling. It really _was_ nice. “What did you have for dinner?”

 

“Uh… How mad will you be if I say I got caught up with writing and haven’t eaten yet?”

 

Derek narrows his eyes.

 

“Very.”

 

“Well in that case, I had a three-course meal.”

 

“I don’t know how you ever survived without me,” Derek says, shaking his head. “You finish up whatever you were working on, I’ll make you something.”

 

“Oh, dude, you don’t have to. I’ll get up.”

 

“No, you won’t,” Derek laughs, already heading to the kitchen. “I’ve got it. But don’t expect a three-course meal."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay for nice things! Lemme know what you thought! I'm wishing lots of luck to anyone dealing with finals week <3


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! Thanks for sticking with me through thick and thin, and for 2,000 kudos <3 Wishing you all a safe year!

“All dressed,” Derek says as he reaches the bottom of the stairs. “What do you think?”

 

Stiles thinks he looks good. Really, _really_ good.

 

He had to buy Derek a new dress shirt, since his bulk practically had the one from Lydia’s first dinner party splitting at the seams. This one is a deep, beautiful purple, and on Derek, it’s…

 

It’s a lot.

 

“Lookin’ alright, man,” he says, tamping down thoroughly on _those_ thoughts. “You ready to go?”

 

“Almost,” Derek says, fiddling with the buttons on one sleeve. “Are you?”

 

“Just gotta tie my shoes.”

 

He sits down on the arm of the couch, facing Derek on the landing.

 

“How do you think this is gonna go?”

 

“I think Ethan is too worried, to be honest. It’ll be fine.”

 

“Wouldn’t you be worried?”

 

Stiles glances up at him, still holding his laces.

 

“Yeah,” he sighs. “But I wish he wasn’t.”

 

* * *

 

“You know, Lydia doesn’t _really_ care if everyone gets dressed up for these things,” Danny says, pulling a dark red shirt from his closet. “I mean, it makes her happy, but.” He shrugs. “Either she’s going to accept us or she’s not.”

 

“Yeah, well, I’m going to butter her up any way I can,” Ethan says.

 

He’s sitting on the edge of Danny’s bed, pulling on dress shoes. He looks oddly attractive with his shirt collar sticking up and his tie draped loosely around his neck. 

 

“They’re going to be fine with it,” Danny promises.

 

“You’re lying.”

 

“I’m not _lying_. I’m just not… certain.”

 

“And if you’re not certain, then _I’m_ certain this is going to go poorly.”

 

Danny sighs, sitting down next to him on the bed.

 

“Come on. I’m just not sure they’re gonna be _happy_. That doesn’t mean they’ll be upset. What’s the worst-case scenario?”

 

“They get annoyed at you, and they sell me.”

 

“They’re not going to _sell_ you,” Danny says, setting a hand on his shoulder. Ethan looks up at him, nerves written all over his face. “Do you really think they would do that?”

 

“Jackson may be your best friend, but he’s not mine. If they think us dating could cause problems in the future, which it _could,_ then they might just sell me now and get it over with before you get too attached.”

 

He goes back to adjusting his shoes, but Danny squeezes his arm, making him look back up.

 

“I already _am_ too attached,” he says seriously. “And I would never let them do that.”

 

Ethan’s face softens for a moment, but then he shakes his head.

 

“Come on, Danny. How much say do you _actually_ have in this house?”

 

“More than you seem to think.”

 

“You’re a _werewolf_. They could sell you tomorrow if they wanted.”

 

“And you think they would?”

 

Ethan sighs.

 

“I think I don’t trust humans as far as I can throw them.”

 

“Well, you’re a werewolf, so you can throw them pretty damn far,” Danny says, poking him in the side. He stands up and starts to fix Ethan’s tie for him. “And I _do_ trust Jackson and Lydia, and I know for a fact that the _worst_ they’ll do is be a little worried, or a little annoyed we didn’t tell them. But that’s all. I’m not lying now, am I?”

 

“No,” Ethan grumbles. “But you could just be an idiot.”

 

“Well, we already knew _that_ ,” Danny says, smiling down at Ethan as he finishes knotting his tie. “Now come on. Let’s get this over with.”

 

* * *

 

“Wow, this all smells super good,” Stiles says, taking a seat at the table. He and Derek are at either head, while Jackson and Lydia sit on one side, facing Danny and Ethan on the other. “Who cooked?”

 

“I did,” Ethan says. “Thank you.”

 

Stiles can tell Ethan still isn’t fully comfortable around him, but he _did_ have Danny invite him and Derek over to soften the blow when they tell Jackson and Lydia they’re dating, so Stiles supposes that counts for something.

 

“Thank _you_ , man. I love pork. You do too, don’t you, Jackson?”

 

“He actually used my mother’s recipe,” Jackson says, already digging in. “And I think he made it better.”

 

Stiles raises his eyebrows at Ethan, who gives a tight smile in return.

 

“So, Lydia, do you think we can set up a meeting with Braeden soon?” Stiles asks, taking a bite of his food. He’s in charge of helping put them in a good mood, too. “I’ve almost got my book done, and I’d like to talk to her about it before I do any serious editing and send it to someone. If there’s something she hates, I’d rather find out now. I mean… I think she would meet up, right? She seemed very personally interested.”

 

“Of course she will, we’re old friends,” Lydia says lightly. “I’ll talk to her.”

 

“Great,” Stiles says. “Now I just have to _finish_.”

 

“I’d like to read it soon myself,” she says, carefully draping her napkin over her lap. “Have you spoken to Allison yet? She told me who she is and that she’d be willing to endorse the book. She told me you-” she clears her throat- “recognized her, Derek. Sorry about that. I wouldn’t have set Scott up with her if I knew.”

 

Derek shrugs.

 

Just like how Ethan isn’t fully comfortable around Stiles, Derek isn’t fully comfortable around Jackson and Lydia.

 

“It’s fine. It’s not like I live with Scott.”

 

“No, but he’s Stiles best friend, and it’s sure to generate a little unpleasantness.” _Ha_ , Stiles thinks. She doesn’t know the half of it. “She’s a sweetheart, though, and I think she’ll be a valuable asset in terms of publicizing this book.”

 

Derek gives no visible reaction to Allison being called a sweetheart, and Stiles doesn’t say anything. _Probably_ best not to go into Derek’s full history with the Argents right now.

 

“She mentioned to me that she’d be willing to help,” he says. “But I haven’t specifically spoken with her about it yet.”

 

“You should get on that,” Jackson says. “Best to get on top of marketing as soon as possible. Some good press can be the difference between a controversial book falling flat and becoming a best seller.”

 

“You talk to Braeden, I’ll talk to her.”

 

“Good,” Lydia says, taking a bite of her food. Looking briefly at Derek, she says, “That’s more than enough about the Argents for tonight. Danny, Ethan, you’ve been quiet all day. How are you two doing?”

 

Stiles notices that Ethan hasn’t touched his food once despite being the one who cooked it.

 

“We’re good,” Danny says, at the same time that Ethan blurts, “We’re dating.”

 

Oh. Well. There’s a way to do it.

 

Jackson and Lydia raise their eyebrows in a scarily coordinated gesture that would’ve terrified Stiles to his very core in high school.

 

They glance at each other.

 

They look back at Ethan and Danny.

 

Side-eye each other for another moment.

 

Finally, in the same confused voice, they say, “We know.”

 

* * *

 

“You _know_?” Danny demands.

 

“You’re my best friend,” Jackson says, like he’s an idiot. He doesn’t even seem bothered enough to stop eating. “I think I can tell when you’ve got a little crush going on.”

 

“I’ve known you for fifteen years,” Lydia adds, giving him a weird look. “And you weren’t exactly subtle.”

 

“To be fair, we didn’t know you were _dating_ , necessarily. We just knew you were together.”

 

“That’s why we didn’t say anything. We weren’t sure if you two knew exactly what you were doing yet. Dating, or just… other things.”

 

Danny is relieved, if embarrassed, but that’s clearly still not the case for Ethan, who asks, “And you’re… okay with it?”

 

“Why wouldn’t we be? I mean, we did go out of our way to find the werewolf who seemed most compatible with Danny,” Lydia says. “We didn’t care one way or another if you dated, but it’s not like it was unfathomable.”

 

“Doesn’t make a difference to us as long as you’re both happy,” Jackson says, shrugging. “It’s not our business what you two do.”

 

“But what if we’re not happy anymore?” Ethan asks, apparently preferring to lay all his worries on the table. “What if we break up?”

 

“Are you?” Lydia asks, frowning.

 

“No, but we could.”

 

“You’re already worried about breaking up?”

 

“He’s worried you’re going to sell him if we do,” Danny says, earning himself a death glare from Ethan. He doesn’t regret it, though, now that he knows where Jackson and Lydia stand. It’s better to assuage all of Ethan’s worries instead of letting him stew over them. “Which I told him you would _never_ do.”

 

“Never,” Lydia agrees, looking perplexed. “Where did you get that idea?”

 

“It’s not exactly _uncommon_ to sell slaves who aren’t working out,” Ethan mutters.

 

Derek raises his eyebrows in agreement, staring down at his plate, but no one else is looking at him.

 

“You’re not a slave,” Jackson says, pointing at him with his fork. “Not to us.”

 

“But I _am_ ,” Ethan says, sounding frustrated. This is not working out the way Danny had hoped. “I _am_ a slave, and I always have been, and I always will be, and you can say that I’m not, but I _am_ , and-”

 

“Ethan,” Lydia says sharply, and Danny knows it’s not meant as a reprimand, but Lydia can be a little scary. He’s thankful when her voice softens. “We are not going to sell you, ever. If, _if_ , you and Danny get in some kind of unsolvable fight that drags on and neither of you can stand to be in the same room, and you _want_ to get out of here, then I’m sure we can find you a very good home. You can even live with Jackson’s parents. Right, Jackson?”

 

“Obviously.” Danny is pretty sure Lydia steps on his foot or something, because he clears his throat and adds, “Obviously you’re welcome there. They have a lot of werewolves.”

 

“And they’re very nice, right Danny?”

 

“Yes,” Danny says, nodding quickly. He reaches a hand out, setting it on top of Ethan’s. “I grew up there. And that’s _only_ if something crazy and awful happens and we can’t even stand to be around each other anymore, and you _want_ to leave. Okay?”

 

Ethan stares down at their interlocked fingers.

 

After a long moment, he says, “Okay.”

 

Danny squeezes his hand tighter, prompting him to look up.

 

“Good. Because I don’t plan on getting in any insane fights with you anyway.”

 

“Me neither,” Ethan says, allowing himself to smile. Glancing up at Lydia and Jackson, he mutters, “I can’t believe you guys knew.”

 

“We may not have werewolf senses,” Lydia hums, “but it was pretty obvious _something_ was going on.”

 

“Very obvious,” Jackson adds.

 

“Very.”

 

“It’s not hard to tell when Danny has a crush.”

 

“Shut up!” Danny laughs. He’s very glad to be laughing. “You guys are such assholes.”

 

“Very foul language to use at dinner,” Stiles pipes up. “And you _are_ obvious.”

 

“Says the nerd who pined over Lydia for all of high school.”

 

“Hey, at least I wasn’t in denial that everyone knew, you worrywart.”

 

“God,” he groans, “you’re all like embarrassing _parents_.”

 

“Aw, we’re sorry,” Lydia says innocently. “Ethan, I don’t think you need to worry about any big fights with Danny, considering the way he looks at you. _All day long_.”

 

“Somehow,” Danny sighs, “this is going worse than I expected.”

 

Ethan squeezes _his_ hand this time, offering a small smile.

 

* * *

 

Derek is genuinely happy for Ethan.

 

If this works out, he pretty much has it _made._

 

If it doesn’t, that’ll suck, but Danny seems like a nice guy. He doubts they’ll develop some kind of horrible grudge where they can’t even be in the same _room_ , like Deucalion and Kali or something. And anyway, he won’t get sold like they did, just sent to live with Jackson’s parents. They’re probably not as liberal with their wolves as Jackson and Lydia are, but they can’t be too bad, or they wouldn’t even be an option. All in all, it seems like a pretty good situation for Ethan. With everything he’s done for Derek in regard to Cora, he deserves it.

 

Derek wonders if  _he'll_ ever have something like that. For some reason, Stiles comes to mind, and he quickly pushes those thoughts away. He's been thinking about him more and more since that day with the cupcakes, but it's _stupid_. He probably just forgot how nice it feels to have a friend by his side all the time, and he's playing his interactions with Stiles up in his mind.

 

That's obviously it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the best things about the new year is that Derek and Stiles will finally acknowledge their feelings for one another. The painful slow burn will finally come to an end ;) And yay for Danny and Ethan! Both my WIPs contain Danny tonight and let me tell you how _vastly_ different Danny and Ethan are between these two fics. It was super weird to switch between editing them LOL. Also, couldn't resist paralleling some great canon scenes, like Jackson and Lydia's terrifying synchronization, and Ethan fixing Danny's tie ;) As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts!  <3

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! I plan on this being quite long, so please let me know what you think so far! Comments and kudos are always appreciated<3
> 
> Visit me on tumblr at [stilesbansheequeen](http://stilesbansheequeen.tumblr.com/)!


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